THE  LIBRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CALIFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


THE  MORALS  OF 
MARCUS   ORDEYNE 


By  tht   Same  Author 
THE  BELOVED  VAGABOND 
AT  THE  GATB  OP  SAMARIA 
THE  DEMAGOGUB  AND  LADY  PHAYRI 
A  STUDY  IN  SHADOWS 
DERELICTS 
IDOLS 

THE  WHITE  Dovt 
THE  USURPER 
WHERE  LOVE  I» 
SEPTIMUS 


THE    MORALS    OF 
MARCUS    ORDEYNE 


A  NOVEL 


BY 
WILLIAM  J.  LOCKE 


NEW  YORK 
GROSSET  &  DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1906 
BY  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


MANHATTAN  PRESS 

474  W.  BROADWAY 

MEW  YORK 


SET    UP,    KLECTROTTPKD    AND     PRINTED     BY 
1KB   PUBLISHERS   PRINTING  CO.,    NEW     YORK 


TO   MY  FATHER 
IN   MEMORIAM  TENEBRARUM 


2039493 


THE   MORALS   OF 
MARCUS    ORDEYNE 


PART  I 


THE     MORALS     OF 
MARCUS    ORDEYNE 

PART  I 

CHAPTER  I 

FOR  reasons  which  will  be  given  later,  I  sit  down  here, 
in  Verona,  to  write  the  history  of  my  extravagant  adven- 
ture. I  shall  formulate  and  expand  the  rough  notes  in  my 
diary  which  lies  open  before  me,  and  I  shall  begin  with  a 
happy  afternoon  in  May,  six  months  ago. 

May  2oth. 

London : — To-day  is  the  seventh  anniversary  of  my  re- 
lease from  captivity.  I  will  note  it  every  year  in  my 
diary  with  a  sigh  of  unutterable  thanksgiving.  For  seven 
long  blessed  years  have  I  been  free  from  the  degrading  in- 
fluences of  Jones  Minor  and  the  First  Book  of  Euclid. 
Some  men  find  the  modern  English  boy  stimulating,  and 
the  old  Egyptian  humorous.  Such  are  the  born  school- 
masters, and  schoolmasters,  like  poets,  nascuntur  non  fiunt. 
What  I  was  born  passes  my  ingenuity  to  fathom.  Certainly 
not  a  schoolmaster — and  my  many  years  of  apprenticeship 
did  not  make  me  one.  They  only  turned  me  into  an  au- 
tomaton, feared  by  myself,  bantered  by  my  colleagues,  and 
sometimes  good-humouredly  tolerated  by  the  boys. 

Seven  years  ago  the  lawyer's  letter  came.  The  post  used 
to  arrive  just  before  first  school.  I  opened  the  letter  in  the 

3 


4         The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

class-room  and  sat  down  at  my  desk,  sick  with  horror.  The 
awful  wholesale  destruction  of  my  relatives  paralysed  me. 
My  form  must  have  seen  by  my  ghastly  face  that  some- 
thing had  happened,  for,  contrary  to  their  usual  practice, 
they  sat,  thirty  of  them,  in  stony  silence,  waiting  for  me  to 
begin  the  lesson.  As  far  as  I  remember  anything,  they 
waited  the  whole  hour.  The  lesson  over,  I  passed  along 
the  cloister  on  my  way  to  my  rooms.  I  overheard  one  of 
my  urchins,  clattering  in  front  of  me,  shout  to  another: 

"I'm  sure  he's  got  the  sack!" 

Turning  round  he  perceived  me,  and  grew  as  red  as  a 
turkey-cock.  I  laughed  aloud.  The  boy's  yell  was  a 
clarion  announcement  from  the  seventh  heaven.  /  had 
got  the  sack!  I  should  never  teach  him  quadratic  equa- 
tions again.  I  should  turn  my  back  forever  upon  those 
hateful  walk  and  still  more  abominated  playing-fields. 
And  I  was  not  leaving  my  prison,  as  I  had  done  once  or 
twice  before,  in  order  to  continue  my  servitude  elsewhere. 
I  was  free.  I  could  go  out  into  the  sunshine  and  look  my 
fellow-man  in  the  face,  free  from  the  haunting,  demoralis- 
ing sense  of  incapacity.  I  was  free.  Until  that  urchin's 
shriek  I  had  not  realised  it.  My  teeth  chattered  with  the 
thrill. 

I  was  fortunately  out  of  school  the  second  hour.  I  em- 
ployed most  of  it  in  balancing  myself.  A  perfectly  rea- 
sonable creature,  I  visited  the  chief.  He  was  a  chubby, 
rotund  man,  with  a  circular  body  and  a  circular  visage, 
and  he  wore  great  circular  gold  spectacles.  He  looked  like 
a  figure  in  the  Third  Book  of  Euclid.  But  his  eyes  sparkled 
like  bits  of  glass  in  the  sun. 

"Well,  Ordeyne?"  he  inquired,  looking  up  from  letters 
to  parents. 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  accept  my  resignation,"  said 
I.  "  I  would  like  you  to  release  me  at  once." 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne          5 

"  Come,  come,  things  are  not  as  bad  as  all  that,"  said  he, 
kindly. 

I  looked  stupidly  at  him  for  a  moment. 

"  Of  course  I  know  you've  got  one  or  two  troublesome 
forms,"  he  continued. 

Then  I  winced.    His  conjecture  hurt  me  horribly. 

"Oh,  it's  nothing  to  do  with  my  incompetence,"  I  in- 
terrupted. 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

"  My  grandfather,  two  uncles,  two  nephews  and  a  valet 
were  drowned  a  day  or  two  ago  in  the  Mediterranean,"  I 
answered,  calmly. 

I  have  since  been  struck  by  the  crudity  of  this  announce- 
ment. It  took  my  chief's  breath  away. 

"I  deeply  sympathise  with  you,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Thank  you,"  said  I. 

"A  terrible  catastrophe.  No  wonder  it  has  upset  you. 
Horrible!  Six  living  human  beings!  Three  generations 
of  men!" 

"That's  just  it," said  I.  "Three  generations  of  my  fam- 
ily swept  away,  leaving  me  now  at  the  head  of  it." 

At  this  moment  the  chief's  wife  came  into  the  library 
with  the  morning  paper  hi  her  hand.  On  seeing  me  she 
rushed  forward. 

"Have  you  had  bad  news?" 

"  Yes.    Is  it  in  the  paper  ?  " 

"I  was  coming  to  show  my  husband.  The  name  is  an 
uncommon  one.  I  wondered  if  they  might  be  relatives  of 
yours." 

I  bowed  acquiescence.  The  chief  looked  at  the  para- 
graph below  his  wife's  indicating  thumb,  then  he  looked 
at  me  as  if  I,  too,  had  suffered  a  sea-change. 

"I  had  no  idea — "  he  said.  "Why,  now — now  you  are 
Sir  Marcus  Ordeyne!" 


6         The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"  It  sounds  idiotic,  doesn't  it  ?  "  said  I,  with  a  smile.  "  But 
I  suppose  I  am." 

And  so  came  my  release  from  captivity.  I  was  pro- 
foundly affected  by  the  awful  disaster,  but  it  would  be 
sheer  hypocrisy  if  I  said  that  I  felt  personal  grief.  I  knew 
none  of  the  dead,  of  whom  I  verily  believe  the  valet  was 
the  worthiest  man.  My  grandfather  and  uncles  had  ig- 
nored my  existence.  Not  a  helping  hand  had  they  stretched 
out  to  my  widowed  mother  in  her  poverty,  when  one  kindly 
touch  would  have  meant  all. 

They  do  not  seem  to  have  been  a  lovable  race,  the  Or- 
deynes.  What  my  father,  the  youngest  son,  was  like,  I 
have  no  idea,  as  he  died  when  I  was  two  years  old,  but  my 
mother,  who  was  somewhat  stern  and  puritanical,  spoke 
of  him  very  much  as  she  would  have  spoken  of  the  prophet 
Joel,  had  he  been  a  personal  acquaintance. 

Seven  years  to-day  have  I  been  a  free  man. 

Feeling  at  peace  with  all  the  world  I  called  this  after- 
noon on  my  Aunt  Jessica,  Mrs.  Ordeyne,  who  has  borne 
me  no  malice  for  stepping  into  the  place  that  should  have 
been  the  inheritance  of  her  husband  and  of  her  son.  Rather 
has  she  devised  to  adopt  me,  to  guide  my  ambitions  and  to 
point  out  my  duties  as  the  head  of  the  house.  If  I  refuse 
to  be  adopted,  avoid  ambitions  and  disclaim  duties,  the 
fault 'lies  not  with  her  good- will.  She  is  a  well-preserved 
worldly  woman  of  fifty-five,  and  having  begun  to  dye  her 
hair  in  the  peroxide  of  hydrogen  era  has  not  the  curiosity 
to  abandon  the  practice  and  see  what  colour  will  result.  I 
wish  I  could  like  her.  I  can't.  She  purrs.  Some  day  I 
feel  she  will  scratch.  She  received  me  graciously. 

"My  dear  Marcus.  At  last!  Didn't  you  know  I  have 
been  in  town  ever  since  Easter?" 

"  No,"  said  I.  "  I  am  afraid  I  didn't."  Which  was  true 
"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne          7 

''I  would  have  asked  you  to  dinner,  but  you  will  never 
come.  As  for  At  Home  cards  I  never  dream  of  sending 
them  to  you.  It  is  a  waste  of  precious  half-penny  stamps." 

"You  might  have  written  me  a  nice  little  letter  about 
nothing  at  all,"  I  suggested. 

"  For  you  to  say  '  What  is  that  woman  worrying  me  with 
her  silly  letters  for?'  I  know  what  you  men  are."  She 
looked  arch. 

This  is  precisely  what  I  should  have  said.  As  I  am  not 
an  inventive  liar,  I  could  only  smile  feebly.  I  am  never  at 
my  ease  with  Aunt  Jessica.  I  am  not  the  kind  of  person 
to  afford  her  entertainment.  I  do  not  belong  to  her  world 
of  opulence,  and  if  even  I  desired  it,  which  the  gods  forbid, 
my  means  would  not  enable  me  to  make  the  necessary  dis- 
play. My  uncle,  thinking  to  retrieve  the  fallen  fortunes  of 
the  title,  amassed  enormous  wealth  as  a  company  promoter, 
while  I,  on  whom  the  title  has  descended,  am  perfectly  con- 
tented with  its  fallen  fortunes.  I  have  scarcely  a  thought  or 
taste  in  common  with  my  aunt.  In  fact,  I  must  bore  her 
exceedingly.  Yet  she  hides  her  boredom  beneath  a  radiant 
countenance  and  leads  me  to  understand  that  my  society 
gives  her  inexpressible  joy.  I  wonder  why. 

She  is  always  be-guide-philosopher-ana- friending  me.  I 
resent  it.  A  man  of  forty  does  not  need  the  counsels  of  an 
elderly  woman  destitute  of  intellect.  I  believe  there  are 
some  women  who  are  firmly  convinced  that  their  sheer  sex 
has  imbued  them  with  all  the  qualities  of  genius.  To-day 
my  aunt  tackled  me  on  the  subject  of  marriage.  I  ought 
to  marry.  I  asked  why.  It  appeared  it  was  every  man's 
duty. 

"  From  what  point  of  view  ?  "  I  asked.  "  The  mere  prop- 
agation of  the  human  race,  or  the  providing  of  a  superflu- 
ous young  woman  with  a  means  of  livelihood  ?  If  it  is  the 
former,  then,  in  my  opinion,  there  are  too  many  people  in 


8         The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

the  world  already;  and  if  the  latter,  I'm  afraid  I'm  nov 
sufficiently  altruistic." 

"You  are  so  funny!"  laughed  my  aunt. 

I  was  not  aware  of  being  the  least  bit  funny. 

"But,  seriously,"  she  continued,  "you  must  marry." 
She  is  a  woman  who  has  an  irritating  way  of  speaking  in 
Italics.  "Are  you  aware  that  if  you  have  no  son  the  title 
will  become  extinct?" 

"And  if  it  does,"  I  cried,  "who  on  this  earth  will  care 
a  half-penny — bun?" 

I  am  growing  tired  of  the  title.  At  first  it  was  rather 
amusing.  Now  it  appears  it  is  registered  in  Heaven's 
chancery  and  hedged  about  with  divine  ordinances.  Only 
the  other  day  an  unknown  parson  requested  me  to  open  a 
church  bazaar,  and  I  gathered  he  had  received  his  instruc- 
tions direct  from  the  Almighty. 

"Why,  every  one  would  care,"  exclaimed  my  aunt,  gen- 
uinely shocked.  "  It  would  be  monstrous.  You  owe  it  to 
your  descendants  as  well  as  to  your  ancestors.  Besides," 
she  added,  with  apparent  irrelevance,  "a  man  in  your 
position  ought  to  live  up  to  it." 

"I  do,"  said  I,  "just  up  to  it." 

"Now  you  aie  pretending  you  don't  understand  me. 
You  ought  to  marry  money!" 

I  smiled  and  shook  my  head.  I  don't  think  my  aunt 
likes  me  to  smile  and  shake  my  head,  for  I  saw  a  flicker 
in  her  eyes.  "No,  my  dear  aunt;  emphatically  no.  It 
would  be  comfortless.  If  I  kissed  it,  it  would  be  cold.  If 
I  put  my  arms  round  it,  it  would  be  full  of  sharp  edges 
which  would  hurt.  If  I  tried  to  get  any  emotion  out  of  it, 
it  would  only  jingle." 

"What  do  you  want  then?" 

"Nothing.  But  if  I  must — let  it  be  plain  flesh  and 
blood." 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne          9 

"Cannibal!''  said  my  aunt. 

We  both  laughed. 

"  But  you  can  have  plenty  of  flesh  and  blood,  with  money 
as  well,  for  the  asking,"  she  insisted;  and  thereupon  my 
two  cousins,  Dora  and  Gwendolen,  entered  the  drawing- 
room  and  interrupted  the  conversation.  They  are  both 
bouncing,  fresh-faced  girls,  in  the  early  twenties.  They 
ride  and  shoot  and  bicycle  and  golf  and  dance,  and  the 
elder  writes  little  stories  for  the  magazines.  As  I  do  none 
of  these  things,  I  am  convinced  they  regard  me  as  a  poor 
sort  of  creature.  When  they  hand  me  a  cup  of  tea  I  al- 
most expect  them  to  pat  me  on  the  head  and  say, "  Good 
dog!"  I  am  long,  lean,  stooping,  hatchet-faced,  hawk- 
nosed,  near-sighted.  I  have  not  the  breezy  air  of  the  jolly 
young  stockbrokers  they  are  in  the  habit  of  meeting. 
They  rather  alarm  me.  Moreover,  they  have  managed  to 
rear  a  colossal  pile  of  wholly  incorrect  information  on  every 
subject  under  the  sun,  and  are  addicted  to  letting  chunks 
of  it  fall  about  one's  ears.  This  stuns  me,  rendering  con- 
versation difficult. 

As  I  had  not  seen  Dora  since  her  return  from  Rome, 
where  she  had  spent  the  early  spring,  I  asked,  in  some  trep- 
idation, for  her  impressions.  Before  I  could  collect  my- 
self, I  was  listening  to  a  lecture  on  St.  Peter's.  She  told  me 
it  was  built  by  Michael  Angelo.  I  suggested  that  some 
credit  might  be  given  to  Bramante,  not  to  speak  of  Rosel- 
lino,  Baldassare  Peruzzi  and  the  two  San  Gallo's. 

"Oh!"  said  my  young  lady,  with  a  superb  air  of  om- 
niscience. "It  was  all  Michael  Angelo's  design.  The 
others  only  tinkered  away  at  it  afterwards" 

After  receiving  this  brickbat  I  took  my  leave. 

To  console  myself  I  looked  up,  during  the  evening, 
Michael  Angelo's  noble  letter  about  Bramante. 

"One  cannot  deny,"  says  he,  "that  Bramante  was  as 


io       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

excellent  in  architecture  as  any  one  has  been  from  the  an- 
cients to  now.  He  placed  the  first  stone  of  St.  Peter's,  not 
full  of  confusion,  but  clear,  neat,  and  luminous,  and  iso- 
lated all  round  in  such  a  way  that  it  injured  no  part  of  the 
palace,  and  was  held  to  be  a  beautiful  thing,  as  is  still  ap- 
parent, in  such  a  way  that  any  one  who  has  departed  from 
the  said  order  of  Bramante,  as  San  Gallo  has  done,  has 
departed  from  the  truth." 

Michael  Angelo  did  not  like  San  Gallo ;  neither  did  he 
like  Bramante — who  was  his  senior  by  thirty  years — but 
this  makes  his  appreciation  of  the  elder's  work  all  the  more 
generous. 

Tinkered  away  at  it,  indeed! 

May  2ist. 

I  spent  all  the  morning  at  work  by  the  open  window. 

I  have  a  small  house  in  Lingfield  Terrace,  on  the  north 
side  of  the  Regent's  Park,  so  that  my  drawing-room,  on 
the  first  floor,  has  a  southern  aspect.  It  has  been  warm 
and  sunny  for  the  past  few  days,  and  the  elms  and 
plane-trees  across  the  road  are  beginning  to  riot  in  their 
green  bravery,  as  if  intoxicated  with  the  golden  wine  of 
spring.  My  French  window  is  flung  wide  open,  and  on 
the  balcony  a  triangular  bit  of  sunlight  creeps  round  as  the 
morning  advances.  My  work-table  is  drawn  up  to  the 
window.  I  am  busy  over  the  first  section  of  my  "History 
of  Renaissance  Morals,"  for  which  I  think  my  notes  are 
completed.  I  have  a  delicious  sense  of  isolation  from  the 
world.  Away  over  those  tree-tops  is  a  faint  purpurine  pall, 
and  below  it  lies  London,  with  its  strife  and  its  misery,  its 
wickedness  and  its  vanity.  Twenty  minutes  would  take 
me  into  the  heart  of  it.  And  if  I  chose  I  could  be  as  strug- 
gling, as  wretched,  as  much  imbued  with  wickedness  and 
vanity  as  anybody.  I  could  gamble  on  the  stock  exchange, 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne        1 1 

or  play  the  muddy  game  of  politics,  or  hawk  my  precious 
title  for  sale  among  the  young  women  of  London  society. 
My  Aunt  Jessica  once  told  me  that  London  was  at  my  feet. 
I  am  quite  content  that  it  should  stay  there.  I  have  much 
the  same  nervous  dread  of  it  as  I  have  of  an  angry  sea 
breaking  in  surf  on  the  shingle.  If  I  ventured  out  in  it  I 
should  be  tossed  hither  and  thither  and  broken  on  the 
rocks,  and  I  should  perish.  I  prefer  to  stand  aloof  and 
watch.  If  I  had  a  little  more  of  daring  in  my  nature  I 
might  achieve  something.  I  am  afraid  I  am  but  a  waster 
in  the  world's  factory;  but  kind  Fate,  instead  of  pitching 
me  on  the  rubbish-heap,  has  preserved  me,  perhaps  has  set 
me  under  a  glass  case,  in  her  own  museum,  as  a  curiosity. 
Well,  I  am  happy  in  my  shelter. 

I  was  interrupted  in  my  writing  by  the  entrance  of  my 
cook  and  housekeeper,  Antoinette.  She  was  sorry  to  dis- 
turb me,  but  did  Monsieur  like  sorrel?  She  was  prepar- 
ing some  veau  a  Voseille  for  lunch,  and  Stenson  (my  man) 
had  informed  her  that  it  was  disgusting  stuff  and  that 
Monsieur  would  not  eat  it. 

"Antoinette,"  said  I,  "go  and  inform  Stenson  that  as  he 
looks  after  my  outside  so  do  you  look  after  my  inside,  and 
that  I  have  implicit  confidence  in  both  of  you  in  your  re- 
spective spheres  of  action." 

"But  does  Monsieur  like  sorrel?"  Antoinette  inquired, 
anxiously. 

"I  adore  it  even,"  said  I,  and  Antoinette  made  her  exit 
in  triumph. 

What  a  reverential  care  French  women  have  for  the 
insides  of  their  masters!  At  times  it  is  pathetic.  Be- 
fore now,  I  have  thrown  dainty  morsels  which  I  could 
riot  eat  into  the  fire,  so  as  to  avoid  hurting  Antoinette's 
feelings. 

I  came  across  her  three  years  ago  in  a  tiny  hostelry  in  a 


1 2       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

tiny  town  in  the  Loire  district.  She  cooked  the  dinner  and 
conversed  about  it  afterwards  so  touchingly  that  we  soon 
became  united  in  bonds  of  the  closest  affection.  Sud- 
denly some  money  was  stolen;  Antoinette,  accused,  was 
dismissed  without  notice.  I  had  a  shrewd  suspicion 
of  the  thief  —  a  suspicion  which  was  afterwards  com- 
pletely justified — and  indignantly  championed  Antoinette's 
cause. 

But  Antoinette,  coming  from  a  village  some  eighty  miles 
away,  was  a  stranger  and  an  alien.  I  was  her  only  friend. 
It  ended  in  my  inviting  her  to  come  to  England,  the  land 
of  the  free  and  the  refuge  of  the  downtrodden  and  op- 
pressed, and  become  my  housekeeper.  She  accepted,  with 
smiles  and  tears.  And  they  were  great  big  smiles,  that  went 
into  creases  all  over  her  fat  red  face,  forming  runnels  for 
the  great  big  tears  which  dropped  off  at  unexpected  an- 
gles. She  was  alone  in  the  world.  Her  only  son  had  died 
during  his  military  service  in  Madagascar.  Although  her 
man  was  dead,  the  law  would  not  regard  her  as  a  widow 
because  she  had  never  been  married,  and  therefore  refused 
to  exempt  her  only  son.  "On  ne  peut-etre  jeune  qu'une 
}ois,  n'est-ce  pas,  Monsieur?"  she  said,  in  extenuation  of 
her  early  fault. 

"And  Jean-Marie,"  she  added,  "was  as  brave  a  fellow 
and  as  devoted  a  son  as  if  I  had  been  married  by  the  Saint- 
Fere  himself." 

I  waved  my  hand  in  deprecation  and  told  her  it  did  not 
matter  in  the  least.  The  della  Scalas,  supreme  lords  of 
Verona  for  many  generations,  were  every  man  jack  of  them 
so  parented.  Even  William  the  Conqueror — 

"Tiens!"  cried  Antoinette,  consoled,  "and  he  became 
Emperor  of  Germany — he  and  Bismarck!" 

Antoinette's  historical  sense  is  rudimentary.  I  have  not 
tried  since  to  develop  it. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne        13 

When  I  brought  my  victim  of  foreign  tyranny  to  Ling- 
field  Terrace,  Stenson,  I  believe,  nearly  fainted.  He  is  the 
correctest  of  English  valets,  and  his  only  vice,  I  believe,  is 
the  accordion,  on  which  he  plays  jaunty  hymn- tunes  when 
I  am  out  of  the  house.  When  he  had  recovered  he 
asked  me,  respectfully,  how  they  were  to  understand  each 
other.  I  explained  that  he  would  either  have  to  learn  French 
or  teach  Antoinette  English.  What  they  have  done,  I  gather, 
is  to  invent  a  nightmare  of  a  lingua  franca  in  which  they 
appear  to  hold  amicable  converse.  Now  and  again  they 
have  differences  of  opinion,  as  to-day,  over  my  taste  for  veau 
a  Voseille;  but,  on  the  whole,  their  relations  are  harmonious, 
and  she  keeps  him  in  a  good-humour.  Naturally,  she  feeds 
the  brute. 

The  duty-impulse,  stimulated  by  my  call  yesterday  on 
one  aunt  by  marriage,  led  my  footsteps  this  afternoon  to 
the  house  of  the  other,  Mrs.  Ralph  Ordeyne.  She  is  of  a 
different  type  from  her  sister-in-law,  being  a  devout  Ro- 
man Catholic,  and  since  the  terrible  affliction  of  two  years 
ago  has  concerned  herself  more  deeply  than  ever  in  the 
affairs  of  her  religion.  She  lives  in  a  gloomy  little  house  in 
a  sunless  Kensington  by-street.  Only  my  Cousin  Rosalie 
was  at  home.  She  gave  me  tea  made  with  tepid  water  and 
talked  about  the  Earl's  Court  Exhibition,  which  she  had  not 
visited,  and  a  new  novel,  of  which  she  had  vaguely  heard. 
I  tried  in  vain  to  infuse  some  life  into  the  conversation.  I 
don't  believe  she  is  interested  in  anything.  She  even  spoke 
lukewarmly  of  Farm  Street. 

I  pity  her  intensely.  She  is  thin,  thirty,  colourless,  bosom- 
less.  I  should  say  she  was  passionless — a  predestined 
spinster.  She  has  never  drunk  hot  tea  or  lived  in  the  sun 
or  laughed  a  hearty  laugh.  I  remember  once,  at  my  wit's 
end  for  talk,  telling  her  the  old  story  of  Theodore  Hook 
accosting  a  pompous  stranger  on  the  street  with  the  polite 


14       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

request  that  he  might  know  whether  he  was  anybody  in 
particular.  She  said,  without  a  smile,  "Yes,  it  was  aston- 
ishing how  rude  some  people  could  be." 

And  her  godfathers  and  godmothers  gave  her  the  name 
of  Rosalie.  Mine  might  just  as  well  have  called  me 
Hercules  or  Puck. 

She  told  me  that  her  mother  intended  to  ask  me  to  dine 
with  them  one  evening  next  week.  When  was  I  free  ?  I 
chose  Thursday.  Oddly  enough  I  enjoy  dining  there,  al- 
though we  are  on  the  most  formal  terms,  not  having  got 
beyond  the  "Sir  Marcus"  and  "Mrs.  Ordeyne."  But 
both  mother  and  daughter  are  finely  bred  gentlewomen, 
and  one  meets  few,  oh,  very,  very  few  among  the  ladies  of 
to-day. 

I  reached  home  about  six  and  found  a  telegram  await- 
ing me. 

"Sorry  can't  give  you  dinner.  Cook  in  an  impossibh 
condition.  Come  later.  Judith." 

I  must  confess  to  a  sigh  of  relief.  I  am  fond  of  Judith 
and  sorry  for  her  domestic  infelicities,  though  why  she 
should  maintain  that  alcoholized  wretch  in  her  kitchen 
passes  my  comprehension.  If  there  is  one  thing  women 
do  not  understand  it  is  the  selection,  the  ordering,  and  the 
treatment  of  domestic  servants.  The  mere  man  manages 
much  better.  But,  that  aside,  Antoinette  has  spoiled  me 
for  Judith's  cook's  cookery.  I  breathed  a  little  sigh  of 
content  and  summoned  Stenson  to  inform  him  that  I  would 
dine  at  home. 

A  great  package  of  books  from  a  second-hand  bookseller 
arrived  during  dinner.  Among  them  were  the  nine  vol- 
umes of  Pietro  Gianone's  Istoria  Civile  del  Regno  di 
Napoli,  a  copy  of  which  I  ought  to  have  possessed  long 
ago.  It  is  dedicated  to  the  "Most  Puissant  and  Felicitous 
Prince  Charles  VI,  the  Great,  by  God  crowned  Emperor 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne        15 

of  the  Romans,  King  of  Germany,  Spain,  Naples,  Hun- 
gary, Bohemia,  Sicily,  etcetera"  Is  there  a  living  soul  in 
God's  universe  who  has  a  spark  of  admiration  for  this 
most  puissant  and  most  felicitous  monarch  crowned  by 
God  Emperor  and  King  of  the  greater  part  of  Europe  (and 
docked  of  most  of  his  pretensions  by  the  Treaty  of  Utrecht)  ? 
We  only  remember  the  forcible-feeble  person  by  his  Prag- 
matic Sanction,  and  otherwise  his  personality  has  left  in 
history  not  the  remotest  trace.  And  yet,  on  the  i2th  Feb- 
ruary, 1 723,  a  profoundly  erudite,  subtle,  and  picturesque 
historian  grovels  before  the  man  and  subscribes  himself 
"  Of  your  Holy  Coesarean  and  Catholic  Majesty  the  most 
humble  and  most  devoted  and  most  obsequious  vassal  and 
slave  Pietro  Gianone."  What  ruthless  judgments  pos- 
terity passes  on  once  enormous  reputations !  In  Gianone's 
admirable  introduction  we  hear  of  "il  celebre  Arthur 
Duck,  il  quale  oltro  a?  confini  delta  sua  Inghilterra  voile  in 
altri  e  pm  lontani  Paesi  andav  rintracciando  Vuso  e  Vau- 
torita  delle  romane  leggi  nej  nuovi  domini  de'  Principi  cris- 
tiani;  e  di  quelle  di  ciascheduna  Nazione  voile  ancora  aver 
conto:  le  ricercb  netta  vicina  Scozia,  e  nelV  Ibernia;  trapasso 
nella  Francia,  e  nella  Spagna;  in  Germania,  in  Italia,  e  net 
nostro  Regno  ancora:  si  stese  in  oltre  in  Polonia,  Boemia, 
in  Ungheria,  Danimarca,  nella  Svezia,  ed  in  piu  remote 
parti."  A  devil  of  a  fellow  this  celebrated  English  Ar- 
thur Duck,  who  besides  writing  a  learned  treatise  De 
Usu  el  Auth.  Jur.  Civ.  Rom.  in  Dominiis  Principum 
Chris tianorum,  was  a  knight,  a  member  of  Parliament, 
chancellor  of  the  diocese  of  London,  and  a  master  in  chan- 
cery. Gianone  flattens  himself  out  for  a  couple  of  pages 
before  this  prodigy  whom  he  lovingly  calls  Arturo,  as  who 
should  say  Raffaelo  or  Giordano;  and  now,  where  in  the 
hearts  of  men  lingers  Sir  Arthur  Duck  ?  For  one  thing 
he  had  a  bad  name.  Our  English  sense  of  humour 


1 6       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

revolts   from  making  a  popular  hero   of  a  man  called 
Duck.    Yet  we  made    one   of  Drake.     But   there  was 
something  masculine   about  the  latter:   in  fact,   every- 
thing. 
I  am  afraid  it  was  rather  late  when  I  got  to  Judith. 


CHAPTER  II 

May  22d. 

I  wonder  whether  I  should  be  happier  now  if  I  had 
lived  in  a  garret  "in  the  brave  days  when  I  was  twenty- 
one,"  if  I  had  undergone  the  lessons  of  misery  with  the 
attendant  compensations  of  "une  folle  maitresse,  de  francs 
amis  et  V amour  des  chansons"  and  had  joyous-heartedly 
mounted  my  six  flights  of  stairs.  I  lived  modestly,  it  is 
true;  but  never  for  a  moment  was  I  doubtful  as  to  my 
next  meal,  and  I  have  always  enjoyed  the  creature  com- 
forts of  the  respectable  classes;  never  did  Lisette  pin  her 
shawl  curtainwise  across  my  window.  Sometimes,  now- 
adays, I  almost  wish  she  had.  I  never  dreamed  of  glory, 
love,  pleasure,  madness,  or  spent  my  lifetime  in  a  moment, 
like  the  singer  of  the  immortal  song.  Often  the  weary  mo- 
ments seemed  a  lifetime. 

And  now  that  I  am  forty,  "it  is  too  late  a  week."  Boon 
companions,  of  whom  I  am  thankful  to  say  I  have  none, 
would  drive  me  crazy  with  their  intolerable  heartiness.  I 
once  spent  an  evening  at  the  Savage  Club.  As  for  the  follc 
maitresse — as  a  concomitant  of  my  existence  she  transcends 
imagination. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?"  asked  Judith. 

" I  was  thinking  how  the  'Dans  un  grenier  qu'on  est  bien 
a  vingt  ans'  principle  would  have  worked  in  my  own  case," 
I  answered  truthfully,  for  the  above  reflections  had  been 
passing  through  my  mind. 

Judith  laughed. 

"  You  in  a  garret  ?  Why,  you  haven't  got  a  tempera- 
ment!" 

2  17 


1 8       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

I  suppose  I  haven't.  It  never  occurred  to  me  before. 
Bdranger  omitted  that  from  his  list  of  attendant  compen- 
sations. 

"That's  the  difference  between  us,"  she  added,  after  a 
pause.  "I  have  a  temperament  and  you  haven't." 

"I  hope  you  find  it  a  great  comfort." 

"  It  is  ten  times  more  uncomfortable  than  a  conscience. 
It  is  the  bane  of  one's  existence." 

"Why  be  so  proud  of  having  it?" 

"You  wouldn't  understand  if  I  told  you,"  said  Judith. 

I  rose  and  walked  to  the  window  and  gazed  medita- 
tively at  the  rain  which  swept  the  uninspiring  little  street. 
Judith  lives  in  Tottenham  Mansions,  in  the  purlieus  of 
the  Tottenham  Court  Road.  The  ground  floor  of  the 
building  is  a  public-house,  and  on  summer  evenings  one 
can  sit  by  the  open  windows,  and  breathe  in  the  health- 
giving  fumes  of  beer  and  whisky,  and  listen  to  the  sweet, 
tuneless  strains  of  itinerant  musicians.  When  my  new 
fortunes  enabled  me  to  give  the  dear  woman  just  the  little 
help  that  allowed  her  to  move  into  a  more  commodious 
flat,  she  had  the  many  mansions  of  London  to  choose 
from.  Why  she  insisted  on  this  abominable  locality  I 
could  never  understand.  It  isn't  as  if  the  flat  were 
particularly  cheap;  indeed  the  fact  of  its  being  situated 
over  a  public-house  seems  to  enhance  the  rent.  She  said 
she  liked  the  shape  of  the  knocker  and  the  pattern  of  the 
bathroom  taps.  I  dimly  perceive  that  it  must  have  had 
something  to  do  with  the  temperament. 

"It  always  seems  to  rain  when  we  propose  an  outing  to- 
gether. This  is  the  fourth  time  since  Easter,"  I  remarked. 

We  had  planned  a  sedate  country  jaunt,  but  as  the  day 
was  pouring  wet  we  remained  at  home. 

"  Perhaps  this  is  the  way  the  bon  Dieu  has  of  expressing 
his  disapproval  of  us,"  said  Judith. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne        19 

"Why  should  he  disapprove?"  I  asked. 

A  shrug  of  her  shoulders  ended  in  a  shiver. 

"I  am  chilled  through." 

"My  dear  girl,"  I  cried,  "why  on  earth  haven't  you  lit 
the  fire?" 

"The  last  time  I  lit  it  you  said  the  room  was  stuffy." 

"  But  then  it  was  beautiful  blazing  sunshine,  you  illogi- 
cal woman,"  I  exclaimed,  searching  my  pockets  for  a 
match-box. 

I  struck  a  match.  To  apply  it  to  the  fire  I  had  to  kneel 
by  her  chair.  She  stretched  out  her  hand — she  has  deli- 
cate white  hands  with  slender  fingers — and  lightly  touched 
my  head. 

"How  long  have  we  known  each  other?"  she  asked. 

"About  eight  years." 

"And  how  long  shall  we  go  on?" 

"As  long  as  you  like,"  said  I,  intent  on  the  fire. 

Judith  withdrew  her  hand.  I  knelt  on  the  hearthrug 
until  the  merry  blaze  and  crackle  of  the  wood  assured  me 
of  successful  effort. 

"These  are  capital  grates,"  I  said,  cheerfully,  drawing  a 
comfortable  arm-chair  to  the  front  of-  the  fire. 

"  Excellent,"  she  replied,  in  a  tone  devoid  of  interest. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  To  me  this  is  one  of  the  great 
charms  of  human  intercourse.  Is  there  not  a  legend  that 
Tennyson  and  Carlyle  spent  the  most  enjoyable  evenings 
of  their  lives  enveloped  in  impenetrable  silence  and  to- 
bacco-smoke, one  on  each  side  of  the  hob?  A  sort  of 
Whistlerian  nocturne  of  golden  fog! 

I  offered  Judith  a  cigarette.  She  declined  it  with  a 
shake  of  the  head.  I  lit  one  myself  and  leaning  back  con- 
tentedly in  my  chair  watched  her  face  in  half-profile. 
Most  people  would  call  her  plain.  I  can't  make  up  my 
mind  on  the  point.  She  is  what  is  termed  a  negative  blonde 


20       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

—that  is  to  say,  one  with  very  fair  hair  (in  marvellous 
abundance — it  is  one  of  her  beauties),  a  sallow  complexion 
and  deep  violet  eyes.  Her  face  is  thin,  a  little  worn,  that 
of  the  woman  who.  has  suffered — temperament  again! 
Her  mouth,  now,  as  she  looks  into  the  new  noisy  flames, 
is  drawn  down  at  the  corners.  Her  figure  is  slight  but 
graceful.  She  has  pretty  feet.  One  protruded  from  her 
skirt,  and  a  slipper  dangled  from  the  tip.  At  last  it  fell  off. 
I  knew  it  would.  She  has  a  craze  for  the  minimum  of  ma- 
terial in  slippers — about  an  inch  of  leather  (I  suppose  it's 
leather)  from  the  toe.  I  picked  the  vain  thing  up  and  bal- 
anced it  again  on  her  stocking-foot. 

"Will  you  do  that  eight  years  hence?"  said  Judith. 

"My  dear,  as  I've  done  it  eight  thousand  times  the  last 
eight  years,  I  suppose  I  shall,"  I  replied,  laughing.  "I'm 
a  creature  of  habit." 

"  You  may  marry,  Marcus." 

"God  forbid!"  I  ejaculated. 

"  Some  pretty  fresh  girl." 

"I  abominate  pretty  fresh  girls.  I  would  just  as  soon 
talk  to  a  baby  in  a  perambulator." 

"The  women  men  are  crazy  to  marry  are  not  always 
those  they  particularly  delight  to  converse  with,  my 
friend/'  said  Judith. 

I  lit  another  cigarette.  "I  think  the  sex  feminine  has 
marriage  on  the  brain,"  I  exclaimed,  somewhat  heatedly. 
"  My  Aunt  Jessica  was  worrying  me  about  it  the  day  before 
yesterday.  As  if  it  were  any  concern  of  hers!" 

Judith  laughed  below  her  breath  and  called  me  a  sim- 
pleton. 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"  Because  you  haven't  got  a  temperament." 

This  was  a  foolish  answer,  having  no  bearing  on  the 
question.  I  told  her  so.  She  replied  that  she  was  years 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       21 

older  than  I,  and  had  learned  the  eternal  relevance  of  all 
things.  I  pointed  out  that  she  was  years  younger. 

"How  many  heart-beats  have  you  had  hi  your  life— 
real,  wild,  pulsating  heart-beats — eternity  in  an  hour?" 

"That's  Blake,"  I  murmured. 

"  I'm  aware  of  it.    Answer  my  question." 

"It's  a  silly  question." 

"  It  isn't.  The  next  time  you  see  a  female  baby  in  a  per- 
ambulator, take  off  your  hat  respectfully." 

I  am  afraid  I  am  clumsy  at  repartee. 

"And  the  next  time  you  engage  a  cook,  my  dear  Ju- 
dith," said  I,  "  send  for  a  mere  man." 

She  coloured  up.  I  dissolved  myself  in  apologies.  Her 
wounded  susceptibilities  required  careful  healing.  The 
situation  was  somewhat  odd.  She  had  not  scrupled  to  at- 
tack the  innermost  weaknesses  of  my  character,  and  yet 
when  I  retaliated  by  a  hit  at  externals,  she  was  deeply 
hurt,  and  made  me  feel  a  ruffianly  blackguard.  I  really 
think  if  Lisette  had  pinned  up  that  curtain  I  should  have 
learned  something  more  about  female  human  nature.  But 
Judith  is  the  only  woman  I  have  known  intimately  all  my 
life  long,  and  sometimes  I  wonder  whether  I  shall  ever 
know  her.  I  told  her  so  once.  She  answered:  "If  you 
loved  me  you  would  know  me."  Very  likely  she  was  right. 
Honestly  speaking,  I  don't  love  Judith.  I  am  accustomed 
to  her.  She  is  a  lady,  born  and  bred.  She  is  an  educated 
woman  and  takes  quite  an  intelligent  interest  in  the  Re- 
naissance. Indeed  she  has  a  subtler  appreciation  of  the 
Venetian  School  of  Painting  than  I  have.  She  first  opened 
my  eyes,  in  Italy,  to  the  beauties,  as  a  gorgeous  colourist,  of 
Palma  Vecchio  in  his  second  or  Giorgionesque  manner. 
She  is  in  every  way  a  sympathetic  and  entertaining  com- 
panion. Going  deeper,  to  the  roots  of  human  instinct,  I 
find  she  represents  to  me — so  chance  has  willed  it — the 


22      The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

ewige  weibliche  which  must  complement  masculinity  in 
order  to  produce  normal  existence.  But  as  for  the  "zieht 
uns  hinan" — no.  It  would  not  attract  me  hence — out  of 
my  sphere.  I  could  commit  an  immortal  folly  for  no 
woman  who  ever  made  this  planet  more  lustrous  to  its 
Bruderspharen. 

I  don't  understand  Judith.  It  doesn't  very  greatly 
matter.  Many  things  I  don't  understand,  the  spiritual 
attitude  towards  himself,  for  example,  of  the  intelligent 
juggler  who  expends  his  life's  energies  in  balancing  a  cue 
and  three  billiard-balls  on  the  tip  of  his  nose.  But  I  know 
that  Judith  understands  me,  and  therein  lies  the  advan- 
tage I  gain  from  our  intimacy.  She  gauges,  to  an  absurdly 
subtle  degree,  the  depth  of  my  affection.  She  is  really  an 
incomparable  woman.  So  many  insist  upon  predilection 
masquerading  as  consuming  passion.  There  is  nothing 
theatrical  about  Judith. 

Yet  to-day  she  appeared  a  little  touchy,  moody,  unset- 
tled. She  broke  another  pleasant  spell  of  fireside  silence, 
that  followed  expiation  of  my  offence,  by  suddenly  calling 
my  name. 

"Yes?"  said  I,  inquiringly. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  something.  Please  promise  me  you 
won't  be  vexed." 

"My  dear  Judith,"  said  I,  "my  great  and  imperial 
namesake,  in  whose  meditations  I  have  always  found  in- 
effable comfort,  tells  me  this :  '  If  anything  external  vexes 
you,  take  notice  that  it  is  not  the  thing  wiiich  disturbs  you, 
but  your  notion  about  it,  which  notion  you  may  dismiss  at 
once,  if  you  please!'  So  I  promise  to  dismiss  all  my  notions 
of  your  disturbing  communication  and  not  to  be  vexed." 

"  If  there  is  one  platitudinist  I  dislike  more  than  another, 
it  is  Marcus  Aurelius,"  said  Judith. 

I  laughed.    It  was  very  comfortable  to  sit  before  the  fire, 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       23 

which  protested,  in  a  fire's  cheery,  human  way,  against 
the  depression  of  the  murky  world  outside,  and  to  banter 
Judith. 

"I  can  quite  understand  it,"  I  said.  "A  man  sucks  in 
the  consolations  of  philosophy;  a  woman  solaces  herself 
with  religion." 

"I  can  do  neither,"  she  replied,  changing  her  attitude 
with  an  exaggerated  shaking  down  of  skirts.  "If  I  could, 
I  shouldn't  want  to  go  away." 

"Go  away?"  I  echoed. 

"Yes.  You  mustn't  be  vexed  with  me.  I  haven't  got 
a  cook — " 

"No  one  would  have  thought  it,  from  the  luncheon  you 
gave  me,  my  dear." 

The  alcoholized  domestic,  by  the  way,  was  sent  out,  bag 
and  baggage,  last  evening,  when  she  was  sober  enough  to 
walk. 

"And  so  it  is  a  convenient  opportunity,"  Judith  con- 
tinued, ignoring  my  compliment — and  rightly  so;  for  as 
soon  as  it  had  been  uttered,  I  was  struck  by  an  uneasy 
conviction  that  she  had  herself  disturbed  the  French  ca- 
terers in  the  Tottenham  Court  Road  from  their  Sabbath 
repose  in  order  to  provide  me  with  food. 

"I  can  shut  up  the  flat  without  any  fuss.  I  am  never 
happy  at  the  beginning  of  a  London  season.  I  know  I'm 
silly,"  she  went  on,  hurriedly.  "If  I  could  stand  your 
dreadful  Marcus  Aurelius  I  might  be  wiser — I  don't  mind 
the  rest  of  the  year;  but  hi  the  season  everybody  is  in  town 
— people  I  used  to  know  and  mix  with — I  meet  them  in 
the  streets  and  they  cut  me  and  it — hurts — and  so  I  want 
to  get  away  somewhere  by  myself.  When  I  get  sick  of 
solitude  I'll  come  back." 

One  of  her  quick,  graceful  movements  brought  her  to  her 
knees  by  my  side.  She  caught  my  hand. 


24      The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"For  pity's  sake,  Marcus,  say  that  you  understand  why 
it  is." 

I  said,  "I  have  been  a  blatant  egoist  all  the  afternoon, 
Judith.  I  didn't  guess.  Of  course  I  understand." 

"If  you  didn't,  it  would  be  impossible  for  us." 

"Have  no  doubt,"  said  I,  softly,  and  I  kissed  her  hand. 

I  came  into  her  life  when  she  counted  it  as  over  and  done 
with — at  eight  and  twenty — and  was  patiently  undergoing 
premature  interment  in  a  small  pension  in  Rome.  How 
long  her  patience  would  have  lasted  I  cannot  say.  If  cir- 
cumstances had  been  different,  what  would  have  happened  ? 
is  the  most  futile  of  speculations.  What  did  happen  was 
the  drifting  together  of  us  two  bits  of  flotsam  and  our  keep- 
ing together  for  the  simple  reason  that  there  were  no  forces 
urging  us  apart.  She  was  past  all  care  for  social  sanctions, 
her  sacred  cap  of  good  repute  having  been  flung  over  the 
windmills  long  before;  and  I,  friendless  unit  in  a  world  of 
shadows,  why  should  I  have  rejected  the  one  warm  hand 
that  was  held  out  to  me?  As  I  said  to  her  this  afternoon, 
Why  should  the  ban  Dieu  disapprove  ?  I  pay  him  the  com- 
pliment of  presuming  that  he  is  a  broad-minded  deity. 

When  my  fortune  came,  she  remarked,  "I  am  glad  I  am 
not  free.  If  I  were,  you  would  want  to  marry  me,  and  that 
would  be  fatal." 

The  divine,  sound  sense  of  the  dear  woman!  Honour 
would  compel  the  offer.  Its  acceptance  would  bring  dis- 
aster. 

Marriage  has  two  aspects.  The  one,  a  social  contract, 
a  quid  of  protc/  ion,  maintenance,  position  and  what  not, 
for  a  quo  of  the  various  services  that  may  be  conveniently 
epitomized  in  the  phrase  de  mensa  et  thoro.  The  other,  the 
only  possible  existence  for  two  beings  whose  passionate, 
mutual  attraction  demands  the  perfect  fusion  of  their  two 
existences  into  a  common  life.  Now  to  this  passionate 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       25 

attraction  I  have  never  become,  and,  having  no  tempera- 
ment (thank  Heaven!),  shall  never  become,  a  party.  Be- 
fore the  turbulence  therein  involved  I  stand  affrighted  as 
I  do  before  London  or  the  deep  sea.  I  once  read 
an  epitaph  in  a  German  churchyard:  "I  will  awake,  O 
Christ,  when  thou  callest  me;  but  let  me  sleep  awhile,  for  I 
am  very  weary."  Has  the  human  soul  ever  so  poignantly 
expressed  its  craving  for  quietude  ?  I  fancy  I  should  have 
been  a  heart's  friend  of  that  dead  man,  who,  like  my- 
self, loved  the  cool  and  quiet  shadow,  and  was  not  al- 
lowed to  enjoy  it  in  this  world.  I  may  not  get  the  calm 
I  desire,  but  at  any  rate  my  existence  shall  not  be  turned 
upside  down  by  mad  passion  for  a  woman.  As  for 
the  social-contract  aspect  of  marriage,  I  want  no  better 
housekeeper  than  Antoinette;  and  my  dining- table  having 
no  guests  does  not  need  a  lady  to  grace  its  foot;  I  have  no 
a  priori  craving  to  add  to  the  population.  "If  children 
were  brought  into  the  world  by  an  act  of  pure  reason 
alone,"  says  Schopenhauer,  "would  the  human  race  con- 
tinue to  exist?  Would  not  a  man  rather  have  so  much 
sympathy  with  the  coming  generation  as  to  spare  it  the 
burden  of  existence  ?  or  at  any  rate  not  take  it  upon  him- 
self to  impose  that  burden  upon  it  in  cold  blood?"  By 
bringing  children  into  the  world  by  means  of  a  marriage 
of  convenience  I  should  be  imposing  the  burden  of  exist- 
ence upon  them  in  cold  blood.  1  agree  with  Schopen- 
hauer. 

And  the  dreadful  bond  of  such  a  marriage!  To  have  in 
the  closest  physical  and  moral  propinquity  for  one  hun- 
dred and  eighty-six  hours  out  of  the  week,  each  hour  sur- 
charged with  an  obligatory  exchange  of  responsibilities, 
interests,  sacrifices  of  every  kind,  a  being  who  is  not  the 
utter  brother  of  my  thoughts  and  sister  of  my  dreams — 
no.  never!  Au  grand  non,  au  grand  jamaisl 


26       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

Judith  is  an  incomparable  woman,  but  she  is  not  the 
utter  brother  of  my  thoughts  and  the  sister  of  my  dreams; 
nor  am  I  of  hers. 

But  the  comradeship  she  gives  me  is  as  food  and  drink, 
and  my  affection  fulfils  a  need  in  her  nature.  The  delicate 
adjustment  of  reciprocals  is  our  sanction.  Marriage, 
were  it  possible,  would  indeed  be  fatal.  Our  pleasant, 
free  relations,  unruffled  by  storm,  are  ideal  for  us 
both. 

Why,  I  wonder,  did  she  think  her  proposal  to  go  away 
for  a  change  would  vex  me  ? 

The  idea  implies  a  right  of  veto  which  is  repugnant  to 
me.  Of  all  the  hateful  attitudes  towards  a  woman  in 
which  a  decent  man  can  view  himself  that  of  the  Turkish 
bashaw  is  the  most  detestable.  Women  seldom  give  men 
credit  for  this  distaste. 

I  kissed  the  white  hand  of  Judith  that  touched  my  wrist, 
and  told  her  not  to  doubt  my  understanding.  She  cried  a 
little. 

"I  don't  make  your  path  rougher,  Judith?"  I  whis- 
pered. 

She  checked  her  tears  and  her  eyes  brightened  wonder- 
fully. 

"You?    You  do  nothing  but  smooth  it  and  level  it." 

"Like  a  steam-roller,"  said  I. 

She  laughed,  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  carried  me  off  gaily 
to  the  kitchen  to  help  her  get  the  tea  ready.  My  assist- 
ance consisted  in  lighting  the  gas-stove  beneath  a  water- 
less kettle.  After  that  I  sprawled  against  the  dresser  and, 
with  my  heart  in  my  mouth,  watched  her  cut  thin  bread- 
and-butter  in  a  woman's  deliciously  clumsy  way.  Once, 
as  the  bright  blade  went  perilously  near  her  palm,  I  drew 
in  my  breath. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       27 

"A  man  would  never  dream  of  doing  it  like  that!"  I 
cried,  in  rebuke. 

She  calmly  dropped  the  wafer  on  to  the  plate  and 
handed  me  the  knife  and  loaf. 

"  Do  it  your  way,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  of  mock  humility. 

I  did  it  my  way,  and  cut  my  finger. 

"The  devil's  in  the  knife!"  I  cried.  "But  that's  the 
right  way." 

Judith  said  nothing,  but  bound  up  my  wound,  and,  like 
the  well-conducted  person  of  the  ballad,  went  on  cutting 
bread-and-butter.  Her  smile,  however,  was  provoking. 

"And  all  this  time,"  I  said,  half  an  hour  later,  "you 
haven't  told  me  where  you  are  going." 

"  Paris.    To  stay  with  Delphine  Carrere." 

"  I  thought  you  said  you  wanted  solitude." 

I  have  met  Delphine  Carrere — brave  femme  if  ever  there 
was  one,  and  the  loyalest  soul  in  the  world,  the  only  one 
of  Judith's  early  women  friends  who  has  totally  ignored 
the  fact  of  the  Sacred  Cap  of  Good  Repute  having  been 
thrown  over  the  windmills  (indeed  who  knows  whether 
dear,  golden-hearted  Delphine  herself  could  conscientiously 
write  the  magic  initials  S.  C.  G.  R.  after  her  name  ?) ;  but 
Delphine  has  never  struck  me  as  a  person  in  whose  dwell- 
ing one  could  find  conventual  seclusion.  Judith,  how- 
ever, explained. 

"  Delphine  will  be  painting  all  day,  and  dissipating  all 
night.  I  can't  possibly  disturb  her  in  her  studio,  for  she 
has  to  work  tremendously  hard — and  I'm  decidedly  not 
going  to  dissipate  with  her.  So  I  shall  have  my  days  and 
nights  to  my  sequestered  and  meditative  self." 

I  said  nothing:  but  all  the  same  I  am  tolerably  certain 
that  Judith,  being  Judith,  will  enjoy  prodigious  merry-mak- 
ing in  Paris.  She  is  absolutely  sincere  in  her  intentions — 
the  earth  holds  no  sincerer  woman — but  she  is  a  self-de- 


28       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

ceiver.  Her  about-to-be-sequestered  and  meditative  self 
was  at  that  moment  sitting  on  the  arm  of  a  chair  and 
smoking  a  cigarette,  with  undisguised  relish  of  the  good 
things  of  this  life.  The  blue  smoke  wreathing  itself  amid 
her  fair  hair  resembled,  so  I  told  her  in  the  relaxed  intel- 
lectual frame  of  mind  of  the  contented  man,  incense 
mounting  through  the  nimbus  of  a  saint.  She  affected 
solicitude  lest  the  life-blood  of  my  intelligence  should  be 
pouring  out  through  my  cut  finger.  No,  I  am  convinced 
that  the  recueillement  (that  beautiful  French  word  for 
which  we  have  no  English  equivalent,  meaning  the  gath- 
ering of  the  soul  together  within  itself)  of  the  rue  Boissy 
d'Anglais  is  the  very  happiest  delusion  wherewith  Judith 
has  hitherto  deluded  herself.  I  am  glad,  exceedingly  glad. 
Her  temperament — I  have  got  reconciled  to  her  affliction 
— craves  the  gaiety  which  London  denies  her. 

"And  when  are  you  going?"  I  asked. 

"To-morrow." 

"To-morrow?" 

"  Why  not  ?  I  wired  Delphine  this  morning.  I  had  to  go 
out  to  get  something  for  lunch  "  (my  conviction,  it  appears, 
was  right),  "and  I  thought  I  might  as  well  take  an  omni- 
bus to  Charing  Cross  and  send  a  telegram." 

"  But  when  are  you  going  to  pack  ?  " 

"I  did  that  last  night.  I  didn't  get  to  bed  till  four  this 
morning.  I  only  made  up  my  mind  after  you  had  gone," 
she  added,  in  anticipation  of  a  possible  question. 

It  is  better  that  we  are  not  married.  These  sudden  res- 
olutions would  throw  my  existence  out  of  gear.  My  moral 
upheaval  would  be  that  of  a  hen  in  front  of  a  motor-car. 
When  I  go  abroad,  I  like  at  least  a  fortnight  to  think  of  it. 
One  has  to  attune  one's  mind  to  new  conditions,  to  map 
out  the  pleasant  scheme  of  days,  to  savour  in  anticipation 
the  delights  that  stand  there,  awaiting  one's  tasting,  either 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       29 

in  he  mystery  of  the  unknown  or  in  the  welcoming  light 
of  .amiliarity.  I  love  the  transition  that  can  be  so  subtly 
gradated  by  the  spirit  between  one  scene  and  another. 
The  man  who  awakens  one  fine  morning  in  his  London 
residence,  scratches  his  head,  and  says,  "What  shall  I  do 
to-day?  By  Jove!  I'll  start  for  Timbuctoo!"  is  to  me  an 
incomprehensible,  incomplete  being.  He  lacks  an  aes- 
thetic sense. 

I  did  not  dare  tell  Judith  she  lacked  an  aesthetic  sense. 
I  might  just  as  well  have  accused  her  of  stealing  silver 
spoons.  I  said  I  should  miss  her  (which  I  certainly  shall), 
and  promised  to  write  to  her  once  a  week. 

"And  you,"  said  I,  "will  have  heaps  of  time  to  write  me 
the  History  of  a  Sequestered  and  Meditative  Self — mean- 
while, let  us  go  out  somewhere  and  dine." 

When  I  got  home,  I  found  a  card  on  my  hall-table. 
"Mr.  Sebastian  Pasquale." 

I  am  sorry  I  missed  Pasquale.  I  haven't  seen  him  for 
two  or  three  years.  He  is  a  fascinating  youth,  a  study  in 
reversion.  I  will  ask  him  to  dinner  here  some  day  soon. 
It  will  be  quieter  than  at  the  club. 


CHAPTER  III 
May  24th. 

Something  has  happened.  Something  fantastic,  incon- 
ceivable. I  am  in  a  condition  to  be  surprised  at  nothing. 
If  a  witch  on  a  broomstick  rode  in  through  my  or  m  win- 
dow and  lectured  me  on  quaternions,  I  should  accept  her 
visit  as  a  normal  occurrence. 

I  have  spent  hours  walking  up  and  down  this  book- 
lined  room,  wondering  whether  the  universe  or  I  were 
mad.  Sometimes  I  laughed,  for  the  thing  is  sheerly  ridic- 
ulous. Sometimes  I  cursed  at  the  impertinence  of  the 
thing  hi  happening  at  all.  Once  I  stumbled  over  a  volume 
of  Muratori  lying  on  the  floor,  and  I  kicked  it  across  the 
room.  Then  I  took  it  up,  and  wept  over  the  loosened 
binding. 

The  question  is :  What  on  earth  am  I  to  do  ?  Why  has 
Judith  chosen  this  particular  time  to  shut  up  her  flat  and 
sequester  herself  hi  Paris?  Why  did  my  lawyers  appoint 
this  particular  morning  for  me  to  sign  their  silly  docu- 
ments ?  Why  did  I  turn  up  three  hours  late  ?  Why  did  I 
walk  down  the  Thames  Embankment?  And  why,  oh, 
why,  did  I  seat  myself  on  a  bench  in  the  gardens  below  the 
terrace  of  the  National  Liberal  Club  ? 

Yesterday  was  one  of  the  most  peaceful  and  happy  days 
of  my  existence.  I  worked  contentedly  at  my  history;  I 
gossiped  with  Antoinette  who  came  to  demand  permission 
to  keep  a  cat. 

"What  kind  of  a  cat?"  I  asked. 

"Perhaps  Monsieur  does  not  like  cats?"  she  inquired, 
anxiously. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       31 

"The  cat  was  worshipped  as  a  god  by  the  ancient  Egyp- 
tians," I  remarked. 

"But  this  one,  Monsieur,"  she  said  in  breathless  reas- 
surance, "  has  only  one  eye." 

I  would  sooner  talk  to  Antoinette  than  the  tutorial  staff 
of  Girton.  If  she  woke  up  one  morning  and  found  she  had 
a  mind  she  would  think  it  a  disease. 

In  the  afternoon  I  strolled  into  Regent's  Park  and  meet- 
ing the  McMurray's  nine-year-old  son  in  charge  of  the 
housemaid,  around  whom  seemed  to  be  hovering  a  sheep- 
ish individual  in  a  bowler  hat,  I  took  him  off  to  the  Zoologi- 
cal Gardens.  On  the  way  he  told  me,  with  great  glee,  that 
his  German  governess  was  in  bed  with  an  awful  sore  throat; 
that  he  wasnrt  doing  any  lessons ;  that  the  sheepish  hoverer 
was  Milly's  young  man,  and  that  the  silly  way  they  went 
on  was  enough  to  make  one  sick.  When  he  had  fed  every- 
thing feedable  and  ridden  everything  ridable,  I  drove  him 
to  the  Wellington  Road  and  deposited  him  with  his  par- 
ents. I  love  a  couple  of  hours  with  a  child  when  it  is  thor- 
oughly happy  and  on  its  best  behaviour.  And  the  enjoy- 
ment is  enhanced  by  the  feeling  of  utter  thankfulness  that 
he  is  not  my  child,  but  somebody  else's. 

In  the  evening  I  read  and  meditated  on  the  happiness  of 
my  lot.  The  years  of  school  drudgery  have  already  lost 
their  sharp  edge  of  remembered  definition,  and  sometimes 
I  wonder  whether  it  is  I  who  lived  through  them.  I  had 
not  a  care  in  the  world,  not  a  want  that  I  could  not  gratify. 
I  thought  of  Judith.  I  thought  of  Sebastian  Pasquale.  I 
amused  myself  by  seeking  a  Renaissance  type  of  wlu'ch  he 
must  be  the  reincarnation.  I  fixed  upon  young  Olgiati, 
one  of  the  assassins, of  Gian  Galeazzo  Sforza.  Of  the  many 
hundreds  of  British  youths  who  passed  before  my  eyes 
during  my  slavery,  he  is  the  only  one  who  has  sought  me 
out  in  his  manhood.  And  strange  to  say  we  had  only  a  few 


32      The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

months  together,  during  my  first  year's  apprenticeship  to 
the  dismal  craft,  he  being  in  the  sixth  form,  and  but  three 
or  four  years  younger  than  I.  He  was  the  maddest,  oddest, 
most  diabolical  and  most  unpopular  boy  in  the  school. 
The  staff,  to  whom  the  conventional  must  of  necessity  be 
always  the  Divine,  loathed  him.  I  alone  took  to  the  creat- 
ure. I  think  now  that  my  quaint  passion  for  the  cinque- 
cento  Italian  must  have  had  something  to  do  with  my 
attraction.  In  externals  he  is  as  English  as  I  am,  hav- 
ing been  brought  up  in  England  by  an  English  mother, 
but  there  are  thousands  of  Hindoos  who  are  more  Brit- 
ish Lhan  he.  The  McMurrays  were  telling  me  dreadful 
stories  about  him  this  afternoon.  Sighing  after  an  obdu- 
rate Viennese  dancer,  he  had  lured  her  coachman  into  help- 
less intoxication,  had  invested  himself  in  the  domestic's 
iivery,  and  had  driven  off  with  the  lady  in  the  darkness  after 
the  performance  to  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  What  hap- 
pened exactly,  the  McMurrays  did  not  know;  but  there 
was  the  devil  to  pay  in  Vienna.  And  yet  this  inconsequent 
libertine  did  the  following  before  my  own  eyes.  We  were 
walking  down  Piccadilly  together  one  afternoon  in  the 
hard  winter  of  1894.  It  was  a  black  frost,  agonizingly 
cold.  A  shivering  wretch  held  out  matches  for  sale.  His 
hideous  red  toes  protruded  through  his  boots.  "My  God, 
my  God!"  cried  Pasquale,  "I  can't  stand  this!"  He 
jumped  into  a  crawling  hansom,  tore  off  his  own  boots, 
flung  them  to  the  petrified  beggar  and  drove  home  in  his 
stocking-feet.  I  stood  on  the  curb  and,  with  mingled  feel- 
ings, watched  the  recipient,  amid  an  interested  group  of 
bystanders,  match  the  small  shapely  sole  against  his  huge 
foot,  and  with  a  grin  tuck  the  boots  under  his  arm  and 
march  away  with  them  to  the  nearest  pawnbroker.  If 
Pasquale  had  been  an  equally  compassionate  Briton,  he 
would  have  stopped  to  think,  and  have  tossed  the  man 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne        33 

a  sovereign.  But  he  didn't  stop  to  think.  That  was  my 
cinquecento  Pasquale.  And  I  loved  him  for  it. 

I  went  to  bed  last  night,  as  I  have  indicated,  the  most 
contented  of  created  beings.  I  awoke  this  morning  with 
no  greater  ruffle  on  my  consciousness  than  the  appoint- 
ment with  my  lawyers.  The  sun  shone.  A  thrush  sang 
lustily  in  the  big  elm  opposite  my  bedroom  windows.  The 
tree  laughed  and  shook  out  its  finery  at  me  like  a  woman, 
saying:  "See  how  green  I  am,  after  Sunday's  rain."  An- 
toinette's one  eyed  black  cat  (a  hideous  beast)  met  me  in 
the  hall  and  arching  its  back  welcomed  me  affably  to  its 
new  residence.  And  on  my  breakfast-table  I  found  a  copy 
of  the  first  edition  of  Cristoforo  da  Costa's  "Elogi  delle 
Donne  Illustri"  a  book  which,  in  great  diffidence,  I  had 
asked  Lord  Camforth,  a  perfect  stranger,  to  allow  me  the 
privilege  of  consulting  in  his  library,  and  which  Lord  Cam- 
forth,  with  a  scholar's  splendid  courtesy,  had  sent  me  to 
use  at  my  convenience. 

Filled  with  peace  and  good-will  to  all  men,  like  a  per- 
sonification of  Christmas  in  May,  I  started  out  this  morn- 
ing to  see  my  lawyers.  I  reached  them  at  three  o'clock, 
having  idled  at  second-hand  bookstalls  and  lunched  on 
the  road.  I  signed  their  unintelligible  document,  and 
wandered  through  the  Temple  Gardens  and  along  the 
Embankment.  When  I  had  passed  under  Hungerford 
Bridge,  it  struck  me  that  I  was  warm,  a  little  leg-weary, 
and  the  Victoria  Embankment  Gardens  smiled  an  invita- 
tion to  repose.  I  struck  the  shady  path  beneath  the  terrace 
of  the  National  Liberal  Club,  and  sat  myself  down  on  a 
comfortable  bench.  The  only  other  occupant  was  a  female 
in  black.  As  I  take  no  interest  in  females  in  black,  I  dis- 
regarded her  presence,  and  gave  myself  up  to  the  contem- 
plation of  the  trim  lawns  and  flower-beds,  the  green  trees 
masking  the  unsightly  Surrey  side  of  the  river,  and  the 
3 


34      The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

back  of  the  statue  of  Sir  Bartle  Frere.  A  continued  sur- 
vey of  the  last  not  making  for  edification  (a  statue  that 
turns  its  back  on  you  being  one  of  the  dullest  objects  made 
by  man),  I  took  from  my  pocket  a  brown  leather-covered 
volume  which  I  had  fished  out  of  a  penny  box:  "Suite  de 
VHistoire  du  Gouvemement  de  Venise  ou  UHistoire  des 
Uscoques,  par  le  Sieur  Houssaie,  Amsterdam,  MDCCV." 
A  whole  complete  scholarly  history  of  a  forgotten  people 
for  a  penny.  The  Uscoques  were  originally  Dalmatians 
who  settled  at  Segna  on  the  Adriatic  and  became  the  most 
pestiferous  colony  of  pirates  and  desperadoes  of  sixteenth 
century  Europe.  I  opened  the  yellow-stained  pages  and 
savoured  their  acrid  musty  smell.  How  much  learning, 
thought  I,  bought  with  the  heart's-blood,  how  many  mill- 
ion hours  of  fierce  intellectual  struggle  appeal  to  man- 
kind nowadays  but  as  an  odour,  an  odour  of  decay,  in  the 
nostrils  of  here  and  there  a  casual  student.  I  thought  this, 
and  my  eye  caught,  repeated  many  times,  the  name  of  the 
Frangipani,  once  lords  of  Segna.  As  men,  their  achieve- 
ments are  wiped  out  of  commonly  remembered  history; 
but  their  name  is  distilled  into  a  sensuous  perfume  which 
perchance  may  be  found  in  the  penny  scent  fountains  of 
to-day.  I  was  smiling  over  this  quaint  olfactory  coinci- 
dence, and  wondering  whether  any  human  being  alive  at 
that  moment  had  ever  read  the  Sieur  Houssaie's  book,  when 
a  tug  at  my  arm,  such  as  a  neglected  terrier  gives  with  his 
paw,  brought  me  back  to  the  workaday  world.  I  turned 
sharply  and  met  a  pair  of  melting,  brown,  piteous,  implor- 
ing dog's  eyes,  belonging  not  to  a  terrier,  but  to  the  dis- 
regarded female  in  black. 

"Will  you  please,  sir,  to  tell  me  what  I  must  do." 
I  stared.    She  was  not  in  the  least  like  what  my  half-con- 
scious glance  at  the  female  in  black  had  taken  her  to  be. 
She  was  quite  young,  remarkably  gocd  looking.    Even  at 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne        35 

the  first  instant  I  was  struck  by  her  eyes  and  the  mass  of 
bronze  hair  and  the  twitching  of  a  childish  mouth.  But 
she  had  an  untidy,  touzled,  raffish  appearance,  due  to  I 
knew  not  what  investiture  of  disrepute.  Her  hands — for 
she  woie  no  gloves — wanted  washing. 

"What  a  young  girl  like  yourself  must  not  do,"  said  I, 
"is  to  enter  into  conversation  with  men  in  public  places." 

"Then  I  shall  have  to  die,"  she  said,  forlornly,  edging 
away  from  my  side. 

She  had  the  oddest  little  foreign  accent.  I  looked  at  her 
again  more  critically,  and  cLxiovered  what  it  was  that 
made  her  look  so  disreputable.  She  was  wearing  an  old 
black  dress  many  sizes  too  big  for  her.  Great  pleats  of  it 
were  secured  by  pins  in  unexpected  places,  so  that  quaint 
chaos  was  made  of  the  scheme  of  decoration — black  vel- 
vet and  bugles — on  the  bodice.  Instinctively  I  felt  that  a 
middle-aged,  fat,  second-hand-clothes-dealing  Jewess  had 
built  it  many  years  ago  for  synagogue  wear.  On  the  girl- 
ish figure  it  looked  preposterous.  Preposterous  too  was  her 
head-gear,  an  amorphous  bonnet  trimmed  in  black,  with  a 
cheap  black  feather  drooping  brokenly. 

Her  eyes  gave  me  a  reproachful  glance  and  turned  away 
again.  Then  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  sniffed.  My 
mother  had  a  housemaid  once  who  always  sniffed  like  that 
before  beginning  to  cry.  My  position  was  untenable.  I 
could  not  remain  stonily  on  the  seat  while  this  grotesquely 
attired  damsel  wept;  and  for  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  get 
up  and  leave  her.  She  looked  at  me  again.  Those  swim- 
ming, pleading  eyes  were  scarcely  human.  I  capitulated. 

"  Don't  cry.    Tell  me  what  I  can  do  for  you,"  I  said. 

She  moved  a  few  inches  nearer. 

"I  want  to  find  Harry,"  she  said;  "I  have  lost  him."    . 

"Who's  Harry?"  I  naturally  inquired. 

"He  is  to  be  my  husband." 


36       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"What's  his  other  name?" 

"  I  have  forgotten,"  she  said,  spreading  out  her  hands. 

"Don't  you  know  any  one  else  in  London?"  I  asked. 

She  shook  her  head  mournfully.  "And  I  am  getting  so 
hungry." 

I  suggested  that  there  were  restaurants  in  London. 

"But  I  have  no  money,"  she  objected.  "No  money 
and  nothing  'at  all  but  this."  She  designated  her  dress. 
"Isn't  it  ugly?" 

"  It  is  decidedly  not  becoming,"  I  admitted. 

"Well,  what  must  I  do?  You  tell  me  and  I  do  it.  If 
you  don't  tell  me,  I  must  die." 

She  leaned  back  placidly,  having  thus  put  upon  my 
shoulders  the  responsibility  of  her  existence.  I  did  not 
know  which  to  admire  more,  her  cool  assurance  or  the  stoic 
fortitude  with  which  she  faced  dissolution. 

"I  can  give  you  some  money  to  keep  you  going  for  a 
day  or  two,"  said  I,  "but  as  for  finding  Harry,  without 
knowing  his  name — " 

"After  all  I  don't  want  so  very  much  to  find  him,"  said 
this  amazing  young  person.  "He  made  me  stay  in  my 
cabin  all  the  tune  I  was  in  the  steamer.  At  first  I  was  glad, 
for  it  went  up  and  down,  side  to  side,  and  I  thought  I 
would  die,  for  I  was  so  sick;  but  afterwards  I  got  better — " 

"But  where  did  you  come  from?"  I  asked. 

"From  Alexandretta." 

"What  were  you  doing  there?" 

"  I  used  to  sit  in  a  tree  and  look  over  the  wall — " 

"What  wall?" 

"The  wall  of  my  house — my  father's  house.  He  was 
not  my  father,  but  he  married  my  mother.  I  am  English." 
She  announced  the  fact  with  a  little  air  of  finality. 

"Indeed?  "said  I. 

"Yes.    Father,  mother — both  English.    He  was  Vice- 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       37 

Consul.  He  died  before  I  was  born.  Then  his  friend 
Hamdi  Effendi  took  my  mother  and  married  her.  You 
see?" 

I  confessed  I  did  not.  "Where  does  Harry  come  in?" 
I  inquired. 

She  looked  puzzled.    "Come  hi?"  she  echoed. 

I  perceived  her  knowledge  of  the  English  vernacular  was 
limited.  I  turned  my  question  differently. 

"  Oh,"  she  said  with  more  animation.  "  He  used  to  pass 
by  the  wall,  and  I  talked  to  him  when  there  was  no  one 
looking.  He  was  so  pretty — prettier  than  you,"  she 
paused. 

"Is  it  possible?"  I  said,  ironically. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  replied  with  profound  gravity.  "He 
had  a  moustache,  but  he  was  not  so  long." 

"Well?    You  talked  to  Harry.    What  then?" 

In  her  artless  way  she  told  me.  A  refreshing  story,  as 
old  as  the  crusades,  with  the  accessories  of  orthodox  tra- 
dition; a  European  disguise,  purchased  at  a  slop  dealer's 
by  the  precious  Harry,  a  rope,  a  midnight  flitting,  a  pas- 
sage taken  on  board  an  English  ship;  the  anchor  weighed; 
and  the  lovers  were  free  on  the  bounding  main.  A  most 
refreshing  story !  I  put  on  a  sudden  air  of  sternness,  and 
shot  a  question  at  her  like  a  bullet. 

"Are  you  making  all  this  up,  young  woman?" 

She  started — looked  quite  scared. 

"You  mean  I  tell  lies?  But  no.  It  is  all  true.  Why 
shouldn't  it  be  true  ?  How  else  could  I  have  come  here  ?" 

The  question  was  unanswerable.  Her  story  was  as  pre- 
posterous as  her  garments.  But  her  garments  were  real 
enough.  I  looked  long  into  her  great  innocent  eyes.  Yes, 
she  was  telling  me  the  truth.  She  babbled  on  for  a  little. 
I  gathered  that  her  step-father,  Hamdi  Effendi,  was  a 
Turkish  official.  She  had  spent  all  her  life  in  the  harem 


38       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

from  which  she  had  eloped  with  this  pretty  young  English- 
man. 

"And  what  must  I  do?"  she  reiterated. 

I  told  her  to  give  me  time.  One  is  not  in  the  habit  of 
meeting  abducted  Lights  of  the  Harem  in  the  Embank- 
ment Gardens,  beneath  the  National  Liberal  Club.  It 
was,  in  fact,  a  bewildering  occurrence.  I  looked  around 
me.  Nothing  seemed  to  have  happened  during  the  last 
ten  minutes.  A  pale  young  man  on  the  next  bench,  whom 
I  had  noticed  when  I  entered,  was  reading  a  dirty  pink 
newspaper.  Pigeons  and  sparrows  hopped  about  uncon- 
cernedly. On  the  file  of  cabs,  just  perceptible  through 
the  foliage,  the  cabmen  lolled  in  listless  attitudes. 
Sir  Bartle  Frere  stolidly  kept  his  back  to  me,  not  the 
least  interested  in  this  Gilbert  a  Becket  story.  I  al- 
ways thought  something  was  wrong  with  that  man's 
character. 

What  on  earth  could  I  tell  her  to  do  ?  The  best  course 
was  to  find  the  infernal  Harry.  I  asked  her  how  she  came 
to  lose  him.  It  appears  he  escorted  her  ashore  at  South- 
ampton, after  having  scarcely  set  eyes  on  her  during  the 
voyage,  put  her  into  a  railway  carriage  with  strict  injunc- 
tions not  to  stir  until  he  claimed  her,  and  then  disappeared 
into  space. 

"  Did  he  give  you  your  ticket  ?" 

"No." 

"What  a  young  blackguard!"  I  exclaimed. 

"I  don't  like  him  at  all,"  she  said. 

How  she  managed  to  elude  the  ticket  collector  at  Vaux- 
hall  I  could  not  exactly  discover.  Apparently  she  told 
him,  m  her  confiding  manner,  that  Harry  had  it,  and  when 
he  found  no  Harry  in  the  train  and  came  back  to  say  so, 
she  turned  her  dewy  imploring  eyes  on  him  and  the  senti- 
mental varlet  melted.  At  Waterloo  a  man  had  told  her 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne        39 

she  must  get  out  of  the  carriage — she  had  travelled  alone 
in  it — and  she  had  meekly  obeyed.  She  had  wandered 
out  of  the  station  and  across  a  bridge  and  had  eventually 
found  herself  in  the  Embankment  Gardens.  Then  she 
had  asked  me  how  to  find  Harry.  Really  she  was  ridicu- 
lously like  Thomas  a  Becket's  Saracen  mother  crying  in 
London  for  Gilbert.  And  the  most  ludicrous  part  of  the 
resemblance  was  that  she  did  not  know  the  creature's  sur- 
name. 

"By  the  way,"  said  I,  "what  is  your  name?" 

"Carlotta." 

"Carlotta  what?"  I  asked. 

"  I  have  no  other  name." 

"Your  father — the  Vice-Consul — had  one." 

She  wrinkled  her  young  forehead  in  profound  mental 
effort. 

"Ramsbotham,"  she  said  at  last,  triumphantly. 

"Now  look  here,  Miss  Ramsbotham — no,"  I  broke  off. 
"Such  an  appellation  is  anachronistic,  incongruous,  and 
infinitely  absurd.  I  can't  use  it.  I  must  take  the  liberty 
of  addressing  you  as  Carlotta." 

"  But  I've  told  you  that  Carlotta  is  my  name,"  she  said, 
in  uncomprehending  innocence. 

"And  mine  is  Sir  Marcus  Ordeyne.  People  call  me 
'Sir  Marcus.'" 

"  Seer  Marcous,"  said  Carlotta. 

She  did  not  seem  at  all  impressed  with  the  fact  that  she 
was  talking  to  a  member  of  the  baronetage. 

" Quite  so,"  said  I.  "Now,  Carlotta,"  I  resumed,  "our 
first  plan  is  to  set  out  in  search  of  Harry.  He  may  have 
missed  his  train,  and  have  followed  by  a  later  one,  and  be 
even  now  rampaging  about  Waterloo  station.  If  we  hear 
nothing  of  him,  I  will  drive  you  to  the  Turkish  Consulate, 
give  you  in  charge  there,  and  they  will  see  you  safely  home 


40      The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

to  Alexandretta.  The  good  Hamdi  Effendi  is  doubtless 
distracted,  and  will  welcome  you  back  with  open 
arms." 

I  meant  to  be  urbane  and  friendly. 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  grew  as  white  as  paper,  opened  her 
great  eyes,  opened  her  baby  mouth,  and  in  the  middle  of  the 
Embankment  Gardens  plumped  on  her  knees  before  me 
and  clasped  her  hands  above  her  head. 

"For  God's  sake  get  up!"  I  shrieked,  wrenching  her 
back  acrobatically  to  the  bench  beside  me.  "  You  mustn't 
do  things  like  that.  You'll  have  the  whole  of  London  run- 
ning to  look  at  us." 

Indeed  the  sight  had  so  far  roused  the  pale  young  man 
from  his  lethargy  that  he  laid  his  dirty  pink  paper  on  his 
knees.  I  kept  hold  of  Carlotta's  wrists.  She  began  to 
moan  incoherently. 

"You  mustn't  send  me  back — Hamdi  will  kill  me — oh 
please  don't  send  me  back — he  will  make  me  marry  his 
friend  Mustapha — Mustapha  has  only  two  teeth — and  he 
is  seventy  years  old — and  he  has  a  wife  already — I  only 
went  with  Harry  to  avoid  Mustapha.  Hamdi  would  kill 
me,  he  would  beat  me,  he  would  make  me  marry  Mus- 
tapha." 

That  is  what  I  gathered  from  her  utterances.  She  was 
frightened  out  of  her  wits,  even  into  anticlimax. 

"But  the  Turkish  Consul  is  your  natural  protector," 
said  I. 

"You  wouldn't  be  so  cruel,"  she  sobbed.  The  guttural 
sonority  with  which  she  rolled  the  "r"  in  "cruel"  made 
the  epithet  appear  one  of  revolting  barbarity.  She  fixed 
those  confounded  eyes  upon  me. 

I  wonder  whether  such  a  fool  as  I  has  ever  lived. 

I  promised,  on  my  honour,  not  to  hand  her  over  to  the 
Turkish  consulate. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       41 

I  took  a  four-wheeled  cab  from  the  rank  on  the  Embank- 
ment and  drove  her  to  Waterloo.  On  the  way  she  reminded 
me  that  she  was  hungry.  I  gave  her  food  at  the  buffet.  It 
appears  she  has  a  passion  for  hard-boiled  eggs  and  lemon- 
ade. She  did  not  seem  very  much  concerned  about  find- 
ing Harry,  but  chattered  to  me  about  the  appointments  of 
the  bar.  The  beer-pulls  amused  her  particularly.  She 
made  me  order  a  glass  of  bitter  (a  beverage  which  I  loathe) 
in  order  to  see  again  how  it  was  done,  and  broke  into  glee- 
ful laughter.  The  smart  but  unimaginative  barmaid 
stared  at  her  in  bewilderment.  The  two  or  three  bar- 
loafers  also  stared.  I  was  glad  to  escape  to  the  platform. 

There,  however,  a  group  of  idlers  followed  us  about  and 
stood  in  a  ring  round  us  when  we  stopped  to  interview  a 
railway  official.  The  beautiful,  bronze-haired,  ox-eyed 
young  woman  in  her  disreputable  attire — I  have  never 
seen  a  broken  black  feather  waggle  more  shamelessly — 
was  a  sight  indeed  to  strike  wonderment  into  the  cockney 
mind.  And  perhaps  her  association  with  myself  added  to 
the  incongruity.  I  am  long  and  lean  and  unlovely,  I 
know;  but  it  is  my  consolation  that  I  look  irreproachably 
respectable.  Of  the  two  I  was  infinitely  the  more  disturbed 
by  the  public  attention.  "  Calm  and  unembarrassed  as  a 
fate"  she  returned  the  popular  gaze,  and  appeared  some- 
what bored  by  my  efforts  to  find  Harry.  In  the  midst  of 
an  earnest  discussion  with  the  station-master  she  begged 
me  for  a  penny  to  put  into  an  automatic  sweetmeat  ma- 
chine, which  she  had  seen  a  small  boy  work  successfully. 
I  refused,  curtly,  and  turned  to  the  station-master.  A 
roar  of  laughter  interrupted  me  again.  Carlotta,  with  out- 
stretched hand  and  pleading  eyes,  like  an  organ-grinder's 
monkey,  had  induced  the  boy  to  part  with  the  sticky  bit  of 
toffee,  and  was  in  the  act  of  conveying  it  to  her  mouth. 

"I'll  call  to-morrow  morning,"  said  I  hurriedly  to  the 


42       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

station-master.  "If  the  gentleman  should  come  mean- 
while,  tell  him  to  leave  his  name  and  address." 

Then  I  took  Carlotta  by  the  arm  and,  accompanied  by 
my  train  of  satellites,  I  thrust  her  into  the  first  hansom-cab 
I  could  see. 

There  was  no  sign  or  token  of  Harry.  No  pretty  young 
man  was  hanging  dejectedly  about  the  station.  None  had 
torn  his  hair  before  the  officials  asking  for  news  of  a  lost 
female  in  frowsy  black.  There  was  no  Harry.  There  was 
no  further  need  therefore  to  afford  the  British  public  a 
gratuitous  entertainment. 

"Drive,"  said  I  to  the  cabman.    "Drive  like  the  devil." 

"Whereto,  sir?" 

I  gasped.    Where  should  I  drive  ?    I  lost  my  head. 

"  Go  on  driving  round  and  round  till  I  tell  you  to  stop." 

The  philosophic  cabman  did  not  regard  me  as  eccentric, 
for  he  whipped  up  his  horse  cheerfully.  When  we  had 
slid  down  the  steep  incline  and  got  free  of  the  precincts  of 
that  hateful  station,  I  breathed  more  freely  and  collected 
my  wits.  Carlotta  sucked  her  sticky  thumbs  and  wiped 
them  on  her  dress. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  she  asked. 

"Across  Waterloo  Bridge,"  said  I. 

"What  to  do?" 

"To  dispose  of  you  somehow,"  I  replied,  grimly.  "But 
how,  I  haven't  a  notion.  There's  a  Home  for  Lost  Dogs 
and  a  Home  for  Stray  Cats,  and  a  Lost  Property  Office  at 
Scotland  Yard,  but  as  you  are  neither  a  dog  nor  a  cat  nor 
an  umbrella,  these  refuges  are  unavailable." 

The  cab  reached  the  Strand. 

"East  or  west,  sir?"  inquired  the  driver. 

"West,"  said  I,  at  random. 

We  drove  down  the  Strand  at  a  leisurely  pace.  I  passed 
through  a  phase  of  agonised  thought.  By  my  side  was  a 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       43 

helpless,  homeless,  friendless,  penniless  young  woman,  as 
beautiful  as  a  goddess  and  as  empty-minded  as  a  baby. 
What  in  the  world  could  I  do  with  her?  I  looked 
at  her  in  despair.  She  met  my  glance  with  a  contented 
smile;  just  as  if  we  were  old  acquaintances  and  I  were  tak- 
ing her  out  to  dinner.  The  unfamiliar  roar  and  bustle  of 
London  impressed  her  no  more  than  it  would  have  im- 
pressed a  little  dog  who  had  found  a  kind  master. 

"Suppose  I  gave  you  some  money  and  put  you  down 
here  and  left  you?"  I  inquired. 

"I  should  die,"  she  answered,  fatalistically.  "Or,  per- 
haps, I  should  find  another  kind  gentleman." 

"  I  wonder  if  you  have  such  a  thing  as  a  soul,"  said  I. 

She  plucked  at  her  gown.  "I  have  only  this — and  it  is 
very  ugly,"  she  remarked  again.  "I  should  like  a  pink 
dress." 

We  crossed  Trafalgar  Square,  and  I  saw  by  Big  Ben 
that  it  was  a  quarter  to  six.  I  could  not  drive  through 
London  with  her  for  an  indefinite  period.  Besides,  my 
half  past  ssven  dinner  awaited  me. 

Why,  oh,  why  has  Judith  gone  to  Paris  ?  Had  she  been 
in  town  I  could  have  shot  Carlotta  into  Tottenham  Man- 
sions, and  gone  home  to  my  dinner  and  Cristoforo  da 
Costa  with  a  light  heart.  Judith  would  have  found  Car- 
lotta vastly  entertaining.  She  would  have  washed  her 
body  and  analysed  her  temperament.  But  Judith  was  in 
retreat  with  Delphine  Carrere,  and  has  left  me  alone  to 
bear  the  responsibilities  of  life — and  Carlotta. 

The  cab  slowly  mounted  Waterloo  Place.  I  had  thought 
of  my  aunts  as  possible  helpers,  and  rejected  the  idea.  I 
had  thought  of  a  police  station,  a  hotel,  my  lawyers  (too 
late),  a  furnished  lodging,  a  hospital.  My  mind  was  an 
aching  blank. 

"Where  do  you  live?"  asked  Carlotta. 


44       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

I  looked  at  her  and  groaned.    It  was  the  only  solution. 

"Up  Regent's  Park  way,"  I  replied,  aware  that  she  was 
none  the  wiser  for  the  information. 

I  gave  the  address  to  the  cabman  through  the  trap-door 
in  the  roof. 

"I'm  going  to  take  you  home  with  me  for  to-night,"  I 
said,  severely.  "  I  have  an  excellent  French  housekeeper 
who  will  look  after  your  comfort.  And  to-morrow  if  that 
infernal  young  scoundrel  of  a  lover  of  yours  is  not  found, 
it  will  not  be  the  fault  of  the  police  force  of  Great  Britain." 

She  laid  her  grubby  little  hand  on  mine.  It  was  very 
soft  and  cool. 

" You  are  cross  with  me.    Why?" 

I  removed  her  hand. 

"You  mustn't  do  that  again,"  said  I.  "No;  I  am  not 
in  the  least  cross  with  you.  But  I  hope  you  are  aware  that 
this  event  is  of  an  unprecedented  character." 

"What  is  an  unprecedented  character?"  she  asked, 
stumbling  over  the  long  words. 

"A  thing  that  has  never  happened  before  and  I  devoutly 
hope  will  not  happen  again." 

Her  face  was  turned  to  me.  The  lower  lip  trembled  a 
little.  The  dog-look  came  into  those  wonderful  eyes. 

"You  will  be  kind  to  me?"  she  said,  in  her  childish 
monosyllables,  each  word  carefully  articulated  with  a  long 
pause  between. 

I  felt  I  had  behaved  like  a  heartless  brute,  ever  since  I 
thrust  her  into  the  cab  at  Waterloo.  I  relented  and  laughed. 

"If  you  are  a  good  girl  and  do  as  I  tell  you,"  said  I. 

"Seer  Marcous  is  my  lord  and  I  am  his  slave,"  was  her 
astounding  reply. 

Then  I  realised  that  she  had  been  brought  up  Toy 
Hamdi  Effendi.  There  is  something  salutary,  after  all,  in 
the  training  of  the  harem. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       45 

"I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  I  said. 

She  closed  her  eyes.  I  saw  now  she  was  very  tired.  I 
thought  she  had  gone  to  sleep  and  I  looked  in  front  of  me 
puzzling  out  the  problem.  Presently  the  cab-doors  were 
thrust  violently  open,  and  if  I  had  net  held  her  back,  she 
would  have  jumped  out  of  the  vehicle. 

"Look!"  she  cried,  in  great  excitement.  "There! 
There's  Harry's  name!" 

She  pointed  to  a  butcher's  cart  immediately  in  front  of 
us,  bearing,  in  large  letters,  the  name  of  "E.  Robinson." 

"We  must  stop,"  she  went  on.  "He  will  tell  us  about 
Harry." 

It  took  me  from  Oxford  Circus  to  Portman  Square  to 
convince  her  that  there  were  many  thousands  of  Robin- 
sons in  London  and  that  the  probability  of  the  butcher's 
cart  being  a  clue  to  Harry's  whereabouts  was  exceedingly 
remote. 

At  Baker  Street  station  she  asked,  wearily :  "  Is  it  still  far 
to  your  house?" 

"No,"  said  I,  encouragingly.    "Not  very  far." 

"But  one  can  drive  for  many  days  through  streets  in 
London,  and  there  will  be  still  streets,  still  houses?  So 
they  tell  me  in  Alexandretta.  London  is  as  big  as  the 
moon,  not  so?" 

I  felt  absurdly  pleased.  She  was  capable  of  an  idea.  I 
had  begun  to  wonder  whether  she  were  not  merely  half- 
witted. The  fact  of  her  being  able  to  read  had  already 
cheered  me. 

"Many  hours,  yes,"  I  corrected,  "not  many  days. 
London  seems  big  to  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  passing  her  hand  over  her  eyes. 
"It  makes  all  go  round  in  my  head.  One  day  you  will 
take  me  for  a  drive  through  these  wonderful  streets.  Now 
I  am  too  tired.  They  make  my  head  ache." 


46       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

Then  she  shut  her  eyes  again  and  did  not  open  them 
until  we  stopped  at  Lingfield  Terrace.  I  modified  my  first 
impression  of  her  animal  unimpressionability.  She  is 
quite  sane.  If  Boadicea  were  to  be  brought  back  to  life 
and  be  set  down  suddenly  at  Charing  Cross,  her  psycho- 
logical condition  would  not  be  far  removed  from  that  of  an 
idiot.  Yet  in  her  own  environment  Boadicea  was  quite  a 
sane  and  capable  lady. 

My  admirable  man  Stenson  opened  the  door  and  ad- 
mitted us  without  moving  a  muscle.  He  would  betray  no 
incorrect  astonishment  if  I  brought  home  a  hippogriff  to 
dinner.  I  have  an  admiration  for  the  trained  serving- 
man's  imperturbability.  It  is  the  guardian  angel  of  his 
self-respect.  I  ordered  him  to  send  Antoinette  to  me  in 
the  drawing-room. 

"Antoinette,"  said  I,  "this  young  lady  has  travelled  all 
the  way  from  Asia  Minor,  where  the  good  St.  Paul  had  so 
many  adventures,  without  changing  her  things." 

"C'est  y  Dieu  possible!"  said  Antoinette. 

"  Give  her  a  nice  hot  bath,  and  perhaps  you  will  have  the 
kindness  to  lend  her  the  underlinen  that  your  sex  is  in  the 
habit  of  wearing.  You  will  put  her  into  the  spare  bed- 
room, as  she  is  going  to  pass  the  night  here,  and  you  will 
look  generally  after  her  comfort." 

"Bien,  M'sieu,"  said  Antoinette,  regarding  Carlotta  in 
stupefaction. 

"And  put  that  hat  and  dress  into  the  dust-bin." 

"Bien,  M'sieu." 

"And  as  Mademoiselle  is  broken  with  fatigue,  having 
come  without  stopping  from  Asia  Minor,  she  will  go  to 
bed  as  soon  as  possible." 

"The  poor  angel,"  said  Antoinette.  "But  will  she  not 
join  Monsieur  at  dinner?" 

"I  think  not,"  said  I,  dryly. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       47 

"  But  the  young  ducklings  that  are  roasting  for  the  din- 
ner of  Monsieur?" 

"If  they  were  not  roasting  they  might  be  growing  up 
into  ducks,"  said  I. 

11  Oh,  la,  la!"  murmured  Antoinette,  below  her  breath. 

"Carlotta,"  said  I,  turning  to  the  girl  who  had  seated 
herself  humbly  on  a  straight-backed  chair,  "you  will  go 
with  Antoinette  and  do  as  she  tells  you.  She  doesn't  talk 
English,  but  she  is  used  to  making  people  understand  her." 

"Mais,  moi  parler  Frangais  un  peu,"  said  Carlotta. 

"Then  you  will  win  Antoinette's  heart,  and  she  will  lend 

you  her  finest .  Good-night,"  said  I,  abruptly.  "I 

hope  you  will  have  a  pleasant  rest." 

She  took  my  outstretched  hand,  and,  to  my  great  em- 
barrassment, raised  it  to  her  lips.  Antoinette  looked  on, 
with  a  sentimental  moisture  in  her  eyes. 

"The  poor  angel,"  she  repeated. 

Later,  I  gave  Stenson  a  succinct  account  of  what  had 
occurred.  I  owed  it  to  my  reputation.  Then  I  went  up- 
stairs and  dressed  for  dinner.  I  consider  I  owe  that  to 
Stenson.  It  was  eight  o'clock  before  I  sat  down,  but  An- 
toinette's ducklings  were  delicious  and  brought  consolation 
for  the  upheaval  of  the  day.  I  was  unfolding  the  latest 
edition  of  The  Westminster  Gazette  with  which  I  always 
soothe  the  digestive  half-hour  after  dinner,  when  Antoi- 
nette entered  to  report  progress. 

She  was  sound  asleep,  the  poor  little  one.  Oh,  but  she 
was  tired.  She  had  eaten  some  consomme,  a  bit  of  fish 
and  an  omelette.  But  she  was  beautiful,  gentle  as  a  lamb; 
and  she  had  a  skin — on  dirait  du  satin.  Had  not  Monsieur 
noticed  it  ? 

I  replied,  with  some  over-emphasis,  that  I  had  not. 

"Monsieur  rather  regards  the  inside  of  his  books,"  said 
Antoinette. 


48 

"They  are  generally  more  worth  regarding,"  said  I. 

Antoinette  said  nothing;  but  there  was  a  feminine  quiver 
at  the  corners  of  her  fat  lips. 

She  was  comfortably  disposed  of  for  the  night.  I  drew  a 
breath  of  relief.  To-morrow  Great  Scotland  Yard  should 
set  out  on  the  track  of  the  absconding  Harry.  Carlotta's 
happy  recollection  of  his  surname  facilitated  the  search.  I 
lit  a  cigarette  and  opened  The  Westminster  Gazette. 

A  few  moments  later  I  was  staring  at  the  paper  in  blank 
horror  and  dismay. 

Harry  was  found.  There  was  no  mistake.  Harry  Rob- 
inson, junior  partner  of  the  firm  of  Robinson  &  Co.,  of 
Mincing  Lane.  Vain,  indeed,  would  it  be  to  seek  the  help 
of  Great  Scotland  Yard.  Harry  had  blown  out  his  brains 
in  the  South  Western  Hotel  at  Southampton. 

I  have  read  the  newspaper  paragraph  over  and  over 
again  to-night.  There  is  no  possible  room  for  doubt  that 
it  is  the  same  Harry. 

The  ways  of  man  are  past  interpretation.  Here  is  an 
individual  who  lures  a  girl  from  an  oriental  harem,  at- 
tires her  in  disgusting  garments,  smuggles  her  on  board  a 
steamer,  where  he  claps  her,  so  to  speak,  under  hatches, 
and  has  little  if  anything  to  do  with  her,  sets  her  penniless 
and  ticketless  in  a  London  train,  and  then  goes  off  and 
blows  his  brains  out.  Where  is  the  sense  of  it  ? 

I  have  not  a  spark  of  sympathy  for  Harry — a  callow,  ego- 
tistical dealer  in  currants.  He  ought  to  have  blown  out  his 
brains  a  year  ago.  He  has  behaved  in  a  most  unconscion- 
able manner.  How  does  he  expect  me  to  break  the  news 
to  Carlotta?  His  selfishness  is  appalling.  There  he  lies, 
comfortably  dead  in  the  South  Western  Hotel,  while  Car- 
lotta has  literally  not  a  rag  to  her  back,  her  horrific  belong- 
ings having  been  dropped  into  the  dust-bin.  Who  does  he 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       49 

think  is  going  to  provide  Carlotta  with  food  and  shelter  and 
a  pink  dress  ?  What  does  he  imagine  is  to  become  of  the 
poor  waif?  In  all  my  life  I  have  never  heard  of  a  more 
cynical  suicide. 

I  have  walked  about  for  hours,  laughing  and  cursing 
and  kicking  the  binding  loose  of  my  precious  Muratori.  I 
have  wondered  whether  the  universe  or  I  were  mad.  For 
there  is  one  thing  that  is  clear  to  me — Carlotta  is  here,  and 
here  Carlotta  must  remain. 

Devastating  though  it  be  to  the  well-ordered  quietude  of 
my  life,  I  must  adopt  Carlotta. 

There  is  no  way  out  of  it 

4 


CHAPTER  IV 
May  2$th. 

Shall  I  be  accused  of  harbouring  a  bevy  of  odalisques 
at  No.  20  Lingfield  Terrace  ?  Calumny  and  Exaggeration 
walk  abroad,  arm  in  arm,  even  on  the  north  side  of  Re- 
gent's Park.  If  they  had  spied  Carlotta  at  my  window  this 
morning,  they  would  have  looked  in  for  afternoon  tea  at 
my  Aunt  Jessica's  and  have  waylaid  Mrs.  Ralph  Ordeyne 
outside  the  Oratory.  The  question  is :  Shall  Truth  antici- 
pate them  ?  I  think  not.  Every  family  has  its  irrepressi- 
ble, impossible,  unpractical  member,  its  enfant  terrible, 
who  is  forever  doing  the  wrong  thing  with  the  best  inten- 
tions. Truth  is  the  enfant  terrible  of  the  Virtues.  Some- 
times it  puts  them  to  the  blush  and  throws  them  into  con- 
fusion; at  others  it  blusters  like  a  blatant  liar;  at  others, 
again,  it  stutters  and  stammers  like  a  detected  thief.  There 
is  no  knowing  how  Truth  may  behave,  so  I  shall  not  let  it 
visit  my  relations. 

I  must  confess,  however,  that  I  feared  the  possible  pass- 
ing by  of  the  two  decrepit  cronies,  when  Carlotta  stood  at 
my  open  French  window  this  morning.  She  is  really  in- 
decently beautiful.  She  was  wearing  a  deep  red  silk  pei- 
gnoir, open  at  the  throat,  unashamedly  Parisian,  which 
clung  to  every  salient  curve  of  her  figure.  I  wondered 
where,  in  the  name  of  morality,  she  had  procured  the  gar- 
ment. I  learned  later  that  it  was  the  joy  and  pride  of  An- 
toinette's existence;  for  once,  in  the  days  long  ago,  when 
she  was  femme  de  chambre  to  a  luminary  of  the  cafe's  con- 
certs, it  had  met  around  her  waist.  She  had  treasured  the 
cast-off  finery  of  this  burned-out  star — she  beamed  in  the 
seventies — for  all  these  years,  and  now  its  immortal  dev- 

50 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       51 

ilry  transfigured  Carlotta.  She  was  also  washed  speck- 
lessly  clean.  An  aroma  that  no  soap  or  artificial  perfume 
could  give  disengaged  itself  from  her  as  she  moved.  Her 
gold-bronze  hair  was  superbly  ordered.  I  noticed  her  arms 
which  the  sleeves  of  the  gay  garment  left  bare  to  the  el- 
bows; the  skin  was  like  satin.  "Et  sa  peau  !  On  dirait 
du  satin."  Confound  Antoinette!  She  had  the  audacity, 
too,  to  come  down  with  bare  feet.  It  was  a  revelation  of 
pink,  undreamed-of  loveliness  in  toes. 

I  repeat  she  is  indecently  beautiful.  A  chit  of  a  girl  of 
eighteen  (for  that  I  learn  is  her  age)  has  no  right  to  flaunt 
the  beauty  that  should  be  the  appanage  of  the  woman  of 
seven  and  twenty.  She  should  be  modestly  well-favoured, 
as  becomes  her  childish  stage  of  development.  She  looked 
incongruous  among  my  sober  books,  and  I  regarded  her 
with  some  resentment.  I  dislike  the  exotic.  I  prefer  ge- 
raniums to  orchids.  I  have  a  row  of  pots  of  the  former  on 
my  balcony,  and  the  united  efforts  of  Stenson,  Antoinette, 
and  myself  have  not  yet  succeeded  in  making  them  bloom ; 
but  I  love  the  unassuming  velvety  leaves.  Carlotta  is  a 
flaring  orchid  and  produces  on  my  retina  a  sensation  of 
disquiet. 

I  broke  the  tidings  of  the  tragedy  as  gently  as  I  could. 
I  had  news  of  Harry,  I  said,  gravely.  She  merely  looked 
interested  and  asked  me  when  he  was  coming. 

"I'm  afraid  he  will  never  come,"  said  I. 

"If  he  does  not  come,  then  I  can  stay  here  with  you?" 

Her  eyes  betrayed  a  quiver  of  anxiety.  For  the  life  of 
me  I  could  not  avoid  the  ironical. 

"If  you  will  condescend  to  dwell  as  a  member  of  my 
family  beneath  my  humble  roof." 

The  irony  was  lost  on  her.  She  uttered  a  joyous  little 
cry  and  held  out  both  her  hands  to  me.  Her  eyes  danced. 


52       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"  Oh,  I  am  glad  he  is  not  coming.  I  don't  like  him  any 
more.  I  love  to  stay  here  with  you." 

I  took  both  the  hands  in  mine.  Mortal  man  could  not 
have  done  otherwise. 

"Have  you  thought  why  it  is  that  you  will  never  see 
Harry  again?" 

She  shook  her  beautiful  head  and  held  it  to  one  side 
and  puckered  up  her  brows,  like  a  wistful  terrier. 

"Is  he  dead?" 

"Would  it  grieve  you,  if  he  were?" 

"No-o,"  she  replied,  thoughtfully. 

"Then,"  said  I,  dropping  her  hands  and  turning  away, 
"Harry  is  dead." 

She  stood  silent  for  a  couple  of  minutes,  regarding  the 
row  of  pink  toes  that  protruded  beneath  the  peignoir.  At 
last  her  bosom  shook  with  a  sigh.  She  glanced  up  at  me 
sweetly. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  she  said. 

That  is  all  she  has  vouchsafed  to  say  with  regard  to  the 
unhappy  young  man.  "She  was  so  glad!"  She  has  not 
even  asked  how  he  met  his  death.  She  has  simply  accepted 
my  statement.  Harry  is  dead.  He  has  gone  out  of  her  life 
like  yesterday's  sunshine  or  yesterday's  frippery.  If  I  had 
told  her  that  yesterday's  cab-horse  had  broken  his  neck, 
she  could  not  be  more  unconcerned.  Nay,  she  is  glad. 
Harry  had  not  treated  her  nicely.  He  had  boxed  her  up 
in  a  cabin  where  she  had  been  sick,  and  had  subjected 
her  to  various  other  discomforts.  I,  on  the  contrary,  had 
surrounded  her  with  luxuries  and  dressed  her  in  red  silk. 
She  rather  dreaded  Harry's  coming.  When  she  learned 
that  this  was  improbable  she  was  relieved.  His  death  had 
turned  the  improbable  into  the  impossible.  It  was  the  end 
of  the  matter.  She  was  so  glad! 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeync       53 

Yet  there  must  have  been  some  tender  passage  in  their 
brief  intercourse.  He  must  have  kissed  her  during  their 
flight  from  home  to  steamer.  Her  young  pulses  must  have 
throbbed  a  little  faster  at  the  sight  of  his  comely  face. 

What  kind  of  a  mythological  being  am  I  housing  ?  Did 
she  come  at  all  out  of  Hamdi  Effendi's  harem  ?  Is  she  not 
rather  some  strange  sea-creature  that  clambered  on  board 
the  vessel  and  bewitched  the  miserable  boy,  sucked  the 
soul  out  of  him,  and  drove  him  to  destruction  ?  Or  is'  she 
a  Vampire  ?  Or  a  Succubus  ?  Or  a  Hamadryad  ?  Or  a 
Salamander  ? 

One  thing,  I  vow  she  is  not  human. 

If  only  Judith  were  here  to  advise  me!  And  yet  I  have 
an  uneasy  feeling  that  Judith  will  suggest,  with  a  certain 
violence  that  is  characteristic  of  her,  the  one  course  which 
I  cannot  follow :  to  send  Carlotta  back  to  Hamdi  Eff endi. 
But  I  cannot  break  my  word.  I  would  rather,  far  rather, 
break  Cailotta's  beautiful  neck. 

I  have  not  written  to  Judith.  Nor,  by  the  way,  have  I 
received  a  letter  from  her.  Delphine  has  been  whirling 
her  off  her  legs,  and  she  is  ashamed  to  confess  the  delusion 
of  the  sequestered  life.  I  wish  I  were  enjoying  myself  half 
as  much  as  Judith. 

"I  have  adopted  Mademoiselle,"  said  I  to  Antoinette 
this  morning.  "  If  she  returned  to  Asia  Minor  they  would 
put  a  string  round  her  neck,  tie  her  up  in  a  sack,  and  throw 
her  into  the  sea." 

"That  would  be  a  pity,"  said  Antoinette,  warmly. 

"Cela  depend,"  said  I.  "Anyhow  she  is  here,  and  here 
she  remains." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Antoinette,  "has  Monsieur  consid- 
ered that  the  poor  angel  will  need  clothes  and  articles  of 
toilette — and  this  and  that  and  the  other?" 


54       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"And  shoes  to  hide  her  shameless  toes,"  I  said. 

"They  are  the  most  beautiful  toes  I  have  ever  seen!" 
cried  Antoinette  in  imbecile  admiration.  She  has  be- 
witched that  old  woman  already. 

I  put  on  my  hat  and  went  to  Wellington  Road  to  consult 
Mrs.  McMurray.  Heaven  be  thanked,  thought  I,  for  let- 
ting me  take  her  little  boy  the  day  before  yesterday  to  see 
the  other  animals,  and  thus  winning  a  mother's  heart. 
She  will  help  me  out  of  my  dilemma.  Unfortunately  she 
was  not  alone.  Her  husband,  who  is  on  the  staff  of  a  morn- 
ing newspaper,  was  breakfasting  when  I  arrived.  He  is  a 
great  ruddy  bearded  giant  with  a  rumbling  thunder  of  a 
laugh  like  the  bass  notes  of  an  organ.  His  assertion  of  the 
masculine  principle  in  brawn  and  beard  and  bass  some- 
what overpowers  a  non-muscular,  clean-shaven,  and  tenor 
person  like  myself.  Mrs.  McMurray,  on  the  contrary,  is  a 
small,  bright  bird  of  a  woman. 

I  told  my  amazing  story  from  beginning  to  end,  inter- 
rupted by  many  Hoo-oo-oo-oo's  from  McMurray. 

"You  may  laugh,"  said  I,  "but  to  have  a  mythical  be- 
ing out  of  Olympiodorus  quartered  on  you  for  life  is  no 
jesting  matter." 

"Olymp — ?"  began  McMurray. 

"Yes,"  I  snapped. 

"Bring  her  this  afternoon,  Sir  Marcus,  when  this  un- 
sympathetic wretch  has  gone  to  his  club,"  said  his  wife, 
"and  I'll  take  her  out  shopping." 

"But,  dear  lady,"  I  cried  in  despair,  "she  has  but  one 
garment — and  that  a  silk  dressing-gown  of  horrible  de- 
pravity that  belonged  to  a  dancer  of  the  second  Empire! 
She  is  also  barefoot." 

"  Then  I'll  come  round  myself  and  see  what  can  be  done." 

"And  by  Jove,  so  will  I!"  cried  McMurray. 

"You'll  do  no  such  thing,"  said  his  wife. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       55 

"If  I  gave  you  a  cheque  for  £100,"  said  I,  "do  you 
think  you  could  get  her  what  she  wants,  to  go  on  with?" 

"A  hundred  pounds!*'  The  little  lady  uttered  a  de- 
lighted gasp  and  I  thought  she  would  have  kissed  me. 
McMurray  brought  his  sledge-hammer  of  a  hand  down 
on  my  shoulder. 

" Man!"  he  roared.  "  Do  you  know  what  you  are  doing 
— casting  a  respectable  wife  and  mother  of  a  family  loose 
among  London  drapery  shops  with  a  hundred  pounds  in 
her  pocket?  Do  you  think  she  will  henceforward  give  a 
thought  to  her  home  or  husband?  Do  you  want  to  ruin 
my  domestic  peace,  drive  me  to  drink,  and  wreck  my 
household?" 

"If  you  do  that  again,"  said  I,  rubbing  my  shoulder, 
"I'll  give  her  two  hundred." 

When  I  returned  Carlotta  was  sitting,  Turkish  fashion, 
on  a  sofa,  smoking  a  cigarette  (to  which  she  had  helped 
herself  out  of  my  box)  and  turning  over  the  pages  of  a  book. 
This  sign  of  literary  taste  surprised  me.  But  I  soon  found 
it  was  the  second  volume  of  my  Edition  de  luxe  of  Lou- 
andre's  Les  Arts  Somptuaires,  to  whose  place  on  the 
shelves  sheer  feminine  instinct  must  have  guided  her.  I 
announced  Mrs.  McMurray's  proposed  visit.  She  jumped 
to  her  feet,  ravished  at  the  prospect,  and  sent  my  beautiful 
book  (it  is  bound  in  tree-calf  and  contains  a  couple  of  hun- 
dred exquisitely  coloured  plates)  flying  onto  the  floor.  I 
picked  it  up  tenderly,  and  laid  it  on  my  writing-table. 

"Carlotta,"  said  I,  "the  first  thing  you  have  to  learn 
here  is  that  books  in  England  are  more  precious  than  ba- 
bies in  Alexandretta.  If  you  pitch  them  about  in  this  fash- 
ion you  will  murder  them  and  I  shall  have  you  hanged." 

This  checked  her  sumptuary  excitement.  It  gave  her 
food  for  reflection,  and  she  stood  humbly  penitent,  while  I 
went  further  into  the  subject  of  clothes. 


56       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"In  fact,"  I  concluded,  "you  will  be  dressed  like  a  lady." 

She  opened  the  book  at  a  gaudy  picture,  "France, 
XVIieme  Siecle — Saltimbanque  et  Bohemienne"  and  pointed 
to  the  female  mountebank.  This  young  person  wore  a  bright 
green  tunic,  bordered  with  gold  and  finished  off  at  the  elbows 
and  waist  with  red,  over  an  undergown  of  flaring  pink,  the 
sleeves  of  which  reached  her  wrist ;  she  was  crowned  with 
red  and  white  carnations  stuck  in  ivy. 

"I  will  get  a  dress  like  that,"  said  Carlotta. 

I  wondered  how  far  Mrs.  McMurray  possessed  the  col- 
our-sense, and  I  trembled.  I  tried  to  explain  gently  to  Car- 
lotta the  undesirability  of  such  a  costume  for  outdoor  wear 
in  London;  but  with  tastes  there  is  no  disputing,  and  I 
saw  that  she  was  but  half-convinced.  She  will  require 
training  in  aesthetics. 

She  is  very  submissive.  I  said,  "  Run  away  now  to  An- 
toinette," and  she  went  with  the  cheerfulness  of  a  child.  I 
must  rig  up  a  sitting-room  for  her,  as  I  cannot  have  her  in 
here.  Also  for  the  present  she  must  take  her  meals  in  her 
own  apartments.  I  cannot  shock  the  admirable  Stenson 
by  sitting  down  at  table  with  her  in  that  improper  peignoir. 
Besides,  as  Antoinette  informs  me,  the  poor  lamb  eats 
meat  with  her  fingers,  after  the  fashion  of  the  East.  I 
know  what  that  is,  having  once  been  present  at  an  Egyp- 
tian dinner-party  in  Cairo,  and  pulled  reeking  lumps  of 
flesh  out  of  the  leg  of  mutton.  Ugh!  But  as  she  has  prob- 
ably not  sat  down  to  a  meal  with  a  man  hi  her  life,  her 
banishment  from  my  table  will  not  hurt  her  feelings.  She 
must,  however,  be  trained  in  Christian  table-manners,  as 
well  as  in  zesthetics;  also  in  a  great  many  other  things. 

Mrs.  McMurray  arrived  with  a  tape-measure,  a  pencil, 
and  a  note-book. 

"First,"  she  announced,  "I  will  measure  her  all  oven 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       57 

Then  I  will  go  out  and  procure  her  a  set  of  out-door  gar- 
ments, and  to-morrow  we  will  spend  the  whole  livelong  day 
in  the  shops.  Do  you  mind  if  I  use  part  of  the  £100  for 
the  hire  of  a  private  brougham?" 

"Have  a  coach  and  six,  my  dear  Mrs.  McMurray,"  I 
said.  "It  will  doubtless  please  Carlotta  better." 

I  summoned  Carlotta  and  performed  the  ceremony  of 
introduction.  To  my  surprise  she  was  perfectly  at  her 
ease  and  with  the  greatest  courtesy  of  manner  invited  the 
visitor  to  accompany  her  to  her  own  apartments. 

When  Mrs.  McMurray  returned  to  the  drawing-room 
she  wore  an  expression  that  can  only  be  described  as  in- 
describable. 

"What,  my  dear  Sir  Marcus,  do  you  think  is  to  be  the 
ultimate  de?tiny  of  that  young  person?" 

"She  shall  learn  type- writing,"  said  I,  suddenly  in- 
spired, "  and  make  a  fair  copy  of  my  Renaissance  Mor- 
als." 

"She  would  make  a  very  fair  copy  indeed  of  Renaissance 
Morals,"  returned  the  lady,  dryly. 

"Is  she  so  very  dreadful?"  I  asked  in  alarm.  "The 
peignoir,  I  know — " 

"  Perhaps  that  has  something  to  do  with  it." 

"Then,  for  heaven's  sake,"  said  I,  "dress  her  in  drabs 
and  greys  and  subfusc  browns.  Cut  off  her  hair  and  give 
her  a  row  of  buttons  down  the  back." 

My  friend's  eyes  sparkled. 

"I  am  going,"  said  she,  "to  have  the  day  of  my  life  to- 
morrow." 

Carlotta  bad  already  gone  to  sleep,  so  Antoinette  in- 
formed me,  when  the  results  of  Mrs.  McMurray's  shop- 
ping came  home.  I  am  glad  she  has  early  habits.  It  ap- 
pears she  has  spent  a  happy  and  fully  occupied  afternoon 


58       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

over  a  pile  of  French  illustrated  comic  papers  in  the  pos- 
session of  my  excellent  housekeeper. 

I  wonder  whether  it  is  quite  judicious  to  make  French 
comic  papers  her  initiation  into  the  ideas  of  Western  civil- 
isation. Into  this  I  must  inquire.  I  must  also  talk  seri- 
ously to  her  with  a  view  to  her  ultimate  destiny.  But  as 
my  view  would  be  distorted  by  the  red  dressing-gown,  I 
shall  wait  until  she  is  decently  clad.  I  think  I  shall  have 
to  set  apart  certain  hours  of  the  day  for  instructive  con- 
versation with  Carlotta.  I  shall  have  to  develop  her  mind, 
of  which  she  distinctly  has  the  rudiments.  For  the  rest 
of  the  day  she  must  provide  entertainment  out  of  her  own 
resources.  This  her  oriental  habits  of  seclusion  will  render 
an  easy  task,  for  I  will  wager  that  Hamdi  Effendi  did  not 
concern  himself  greatly  as  to  the  way  in  which  the  ladies 
of  his  harem  filled  up  their  time.  And  now  I  come  to 
think  of  it,  he  certainly  did  not  allow  Carlotta  to  sprawl 
about  his  own  private  and  particular  drawing-room.  I  will 
not  westernise  her  too  rapidly.  The  Turkish  educational 
system  has  its  merits. 

This,  in  its  way  is  comforting.  If  only  I  could  accept 
her  as  a  human  creature.  But  when  I  think  of  her  callous 
reception  of  the  tidings  of  the  unhappy  boy's  death,  my 
spirit  fails  me.  Such  a  being  would  run  a  carving-knife 
into  you,  as  you  slept,  without  any  compunction,  and 
when  you  squeaked,  she  would  laugh.  Look  at  her  base 
ingratitude  to  the  good  Hamdi  Effendi,  who  took  her  in 
before  she  was  born  and  has  treated  her  as  a  daughter  all 
her  life.  No :  her  spiritual  attitude  all  through  has  been 
that  of  the  ladies  who  used  to  visit  St.  Anthony — in  the 
leisure  moments  when  they  were  not  actively  engaged  in 
temptation.  I  don't  believe  her  father  was  an  English 
vice-consul.  He  was  Satan. 

I  wonder  what  she  told  Mrs.  McMurray. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne        59 

I  have  been  thinking  over  the  matter  to-night.  The 
good  lady  was  wrong.  Whatever  were  the  morals  of  the 
Renaissance,  personalities  were  essentially  positive.  They 
were  devilishly  wicked  or  angelically  good.  There  was 
nothing  rosse,  non-moral  about  the  Renaissance  Ital- 
ian. The  women  were  strongly  tempered.  I  love  to  be- 
lieve the  story  told  by  Machiavelli  and  Muratori  of  Cath- 
erine Sforza  in  the  citadel  of  Forli.  "  Surrender  or  we  slay 
your  children  which  we  hold  as  hostages,"  cried  the  be- 
siegers. "Kill  them  if  you  like.  I  can  breed  more  to 
avenge  them."  It  is  the  speech  of  a  giant  nature.  It 
awakens  something  enthusiastic  within  me ;  although  such 
a  lady  would  be  an  undesirable  helpmeet  for  a  mild  man- 
nered man  like  myself. 

And  then  again  there  is  Bonna,  the  woman  for  whose 
career  I  desired  to  consult  the  prime  authority  Cristoforo 
da  Costa.  I  have  been  sketching  her  into  my  chapter  to- 
night. Here  is  a  peasant  girl  caught  up  to  his  saddle-bow 
by  a  condottiere,  Brunoro,  during  some  village  raid.  She 
fights  like  a  soldier  by  his  side.  He  is  imprisoned  in  Va- 
lencia by  Alfonso  of  Naples,  languishes  in  a  dungeon  for 
ten  years.  And  for  ten  years  Bonna  goes  from  court  to 
court  in  Europe  and  from  prince  to  prince,  across  seas  and 
mountains,  unwearying,  unyielding,  with  the  passion  of 
heaven  in  her  heart  and  the  courage  of  hell  in  her  soul, 
urging  and  soliciting  her  man's  release.  After  ten  long 
years  she  succeeds.  And  then  they  are  married.  What 
were  her  tumultuous  feelings  as  she  stood  by  that  altar  ? 
The  old  historian  does  not  say;  but  the  very  glory  of  God 
must  have  flooded  her  being  when,  in  the  silence  of  the  bare 
church,  the  little  bell  tinkled  to  tell  her  that  the  Host  was 
raised,  and  her  love  was  made  blessed  for  all  eternity. 
A.nd  then  she  goes  away  with  him  and  fights  in  the  old 
•vay  by  his  side  for  fifteen  years.  When  he  is  killed,  she 


60      The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

languishes  and  dies  within  the  year.  Porcelli  sees  them  in 
1455.  Brunoro,an  old,  squinting, paralysed  man.  Bonna, 
a  little  shrivelled,  yellow  old  woman,  with  a  quiver  on  her 
shoulder,  a  bow  in  her  hand;  her  grey  hair  is  covered  by 
a  helmet  and  she  wears  great  military  boots.  The  pic- 
ture is  magical.  There  is  infinite  pathos  in  the  sight  of  the 
two  withered,  crippled,  grotesque  forms  from  which  all  the 
glamour  of  manhood  and  beauty  have  departed,  and  in- 
finite awe  in  the  thought  of  the  holy  communion  of  the  un- 
conquerable and  passionate  souls.  I  wonder  it  has  not 
come  down  to  us  as  one  of  the  great  love-stories  of  the 
world. 

Elements  such  as  these  sway  the  Morals  of  the  Renais- 
sance. 

But  I  am  taking  Mrs.  McMurray  too  seriously;  and  it  is 
really  not  a  bad  idea  to  have  Carlotta  taught  type- writing. 


CHAPTER  V 

May  26th. 

This  morning  a  letter  from  Judith. 

"Do  not  laugh  at  me,"  she  writes.  "The  road  to  Paris 
is  paved  with  good  intentions.  I  really  could  not  help  it. 
Delphine  put  her  great  arm  round  my  would-be  seques- 
tered and  meditative  self  and  carried  it  off  bodily,  and  here 
it  is  in  the  midst  of  lunches,  picture-shows,  dinners,  sup- 
pers, theatres  and  dances;  and  if  you  laugh,  you  will  make 
me  humiliated  when  I  confess  that  it  is  thoroughly  enjoy- 
ing itself." 

Laugh  at  her,  dear  woman?  I  am  only  too  glad  that 
she  can  fling  her  Winter  Garment  of  Repentance  into 
the  Fires  of  Paris  Springtide.  She  has  little  enough  en- 
joyment in  friendless  London.  Fill  your  heart  with  it,  my 
dear,  and  lay  up  a  store  for  use  in  the  dull  months  to  come. 
For  my  part,  however,  I  am  content  to  be  beyond  the 
reach  of  Delphine's  great  arm.  I  must  write  to  Judith.  I 
shall  have  to  explain  Carlotta;  but  for  that  I  think  I  shall 
wait  until  she  becomes  a  little  more  explicable.  In  deal- 
ing with  women  it  is  well  to  employ  discrimination.  You 
are  never  quite  sure  whether  they  are  not  merely  simple 
geese  or  the  most  complex  of  created  beings.  Perhaps 
they  are  such  a  curious  admixture  that  you  cannot  tell  at 
a  given  moment  which  side,  the  simple  or  the  complex,  you 
are  touching.  May  not  there  be  the  deepest  of  all  allego- 
ries in  Eve  standing  midway  between  the  innocent  apple 
and  the  guileful  serpent  ?  I  shall  have  to  see  more  of  Car- 
lotta before  I  can  safely  explain  her  to  Judith. 

At  any  rate  she  is  no  longer  attired  like  an  odalisque 

61 


62       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

of  the  Second  Empire,  and  Mrs.  McMurray  has  saved  her 
from  the  lamentable  errcr:  ^r  taste  shown  by  the  female 
mountebank  of  sixteenth  century  France.  My  excellent 
friend  safely  delivered  up  an  exhausted  and  bewildered 
charge  at  half -past  seven  last  evening,  assuring  me  that  her 
task  had  been  easy,  and  that  her  anticipations  of  it  being 
the  day  of  her  lif  e  had  been  fulfilled.  It  had  been  like  dress- 
ing a  doll,  she  explained,  beaming. 

An  edifying  pastime  for  an  adult  woman!  I  did  not 
utter  this  sentiment,  ior  she  would  rightly  have  styled  me 
the  most  ungrateful  of  unhung  wretches. 

Carlotta,  then,  had  followed  her  about  like  a  perambu- 
latory  doll,  upon  which  she  had  fitted  all  the  finery  she 
could  lay  her  hands  on.  Apparently  the  atmosphere  of  the 
great  shops  had  acted  on  Carlotta  like  an  anaesthetic. 
She  had  moved  in  a  sensuous  dream  of  drapery,  wherein 
the  choice-impulse  was  paralysed.  The  only  articles  upon 
which,  in  an  unclouded  moment,  she  had  set  her  heart — 
and  that  with  a  sudden  passion  of  covetousness — were  a 
pair  of  red,  high-heeled  shoes  and  a  cheap  red  parasol. 

"You  have  no  idea  what  it  means,"  said  Mrs.  McMur- 
ray, "  to  buy  everything  that  a  woman  needs." 

I  replied  that  I  had  a  respectful  distaste  for  transcen- 
dental philosophy. 

"From  a  paper  of  pins  to  an  opera-cloak,"  she  con- 
tinued. 

"I'm  afraid,  dear  Mrs.  McMurray,  an  opera-cloak  is 
not  the  superior  limit  of  a  -woman's  needs,"  said  I.  "I 
wish  it  were." 

She  called  me  a  cynic  and  went. 

This  morning  Carlotta  interrupted  me  in  my  work. 

"Will  Seer  Marcous  come  to  my  room  and  see  my  pretty 
things?" 

In  summer  blouse  and  plain  skirt  she  looked  as  demure 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       63 

as  any  damsel  in  St.  John's  Wood.  She  hung  her  head  a 
little  to  one  side.  For  the  moment  I  felt  paternal,  and  in- 
dulgently consented.  Words  of  man  cannot  describe  the 
mass  of  millinery  and  chiffonery  in  that  chamber.  The 
spaces  that  were  not  piled  high  with  vesture  gave  resting 
spots  for  cardboard  boxes  and  packing-paper.  Antoinette 
stood  in  a  corner  gazing  at  the  spoil  with  a  smile  of  beatific 
idiocy.  I  strode  through  the  cardboard  boxes  which 
crackled  like  bracken,  and  remained  dumb  as  a  fish  be- 
fore these  mysteries.  Carlotta  tried  on  hats.  She  shewed 
me  patent  leather  shoes.  She  exhibited  blouses  and  petti- 
coats until  my  eyes  ached.  She  brandished  something  in 
her  hand. 

"Tell  me  if  I  must  wear  it"  (I  believe  the  sophisticated 
call  it  "them").  "Mrs.  McMurray  says  all  ladies  do. 
But  we  never  wear  it  in  Alexandretta,  and  it  hurts." 

She  clasped  herself  pathetically  and  turned  her  great 
imploring  eyes  on  me. 

"II  faul  souffrir  pour  ttre  belle"  I  said. 

"But  with  the  figure  of  Mademoiselle,  it  is  stupid!" 
cried  Antoinette. 

"It  is  outrageous  that  I  should  be  called  upon  to  ex- 
press an  opinion  on  such  matters,"  I  said,  loftily.  And  so 
it  was.  My  assertion  of  dignity  impressed  them. 

Then,  with  characteristic  frankness,  my  young  lady 
shakes  out  before  me  things  all  frills,  embroidery,  ribbons, 
diaphaneity,  which  the  ordinary  man  only  examines 
through  shop-front  windows  when  a  philosophic  mood  in- 
duces him  to  speculate  on  the  unfathomable  vanity  of 
woman. 

"Les  beaux  dessous!"  breathed  Antoinette. 

"The  same  ejaculation,"  I  murmured,  "was  doubtless 
uttered  by  an  enraptured  waiting-maid,  when  she  beheld 
the  stout  linen  smocks  of  the  ladies  of  the  Heptameron." 


64       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

I  reflected  on  the  relativity  of  things  mundane.  The 
waiting-maid  no  doubt  wore  some  horror  made  of  hemp 
against  her  skin.  If  Carlotta's  gossamer  follies  had  been 
thrown  into  the  vagabond  court  of  the  Queen  of  Navarre, 
I  wonder  whether  those  delectable  stories  would  have  been 
written? 

As  Antoinette  does  not  understand  literary  English,  and 
as  Carlotta  did  not  know  what  in  the  world  I  was  talking 
about,  I  was  master  of  the  conversational  situation.  Car- 
lotta went  to  the  mantel-piece  and  returned  with  a  glutin- 
ous mass  of  sweet  stuff  between  her  fingers. 

"Will  Seer  Marcous  have  some?    It  is  nougat." 

I  declined. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  tragically  disappointed.    "It  is  good." 

There  is  something  in  that  silly  creature's  eyes  that  I 
cannot  resist.  She  put  the  abominable  morsel  into  my 
mouth — it  was  far  too  sticky  for  me  to  hold — and  laugh- 
ingly licked  her  own  fingers. 

I  went  down  to  work  again  with  an  uneasy  feeling  of 
imperilled  dignity. 

May  igth. 

I  sent  her  word  that  I  would  take  her  for  a  drive  this 
afternoon.  She  was  to  be  ready  at  three  o'clock.  It  will 
be  wholesome  for  her  to  regard  her  outings  with  me  as 
rare  occurrences  to  be  highly  valued.  Ordinarily  she  will 
go  out  with  Antoinette — for  the  present  at  least — as  she 
did  yesterday. 

At  three  o'clock  Stenson  informed  me  that  the  cab  was 
at  the  door. 

"  Go  up  and  call  Mademoiselle,"  said  I. 

In  two  or  three  minutes  she  came  down.  I  have  not  had 
such  a  shock  in  my  life.  I  uttered  exclamations  of  amaze- 
ment in  several  languages.  I  have  never  seen  on  the  stage 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       65 

or  off  such  a  figure  as  she  presented.  Her  cheeks  were 
white  with  powder,  her  lips  dyed  a  pomegranate  scarlet, 
her  eyebrows  and  lashes  blackened.  In  her  ears  she  wore 
large  silver-gilt  earrings.  She  entered  the  room  with  an 
air  of  triumph,  as  who  should  say:  "  See  how  captivatingly 
beautiful  I  am!" 

At  my  stare  of  horror  her  face  fell.  At  my  command  to 
go  upstairs  and  wash  herself  clean,  she  wept. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  don't  cry,"  I  exclaimed,  "or  you 
will  look  like  a  rainbow." 

"I  did  it  to  please  you,"  she  sobbed. 

"It  is  only  the  lowest  class  of  dancing- women  who  paint 
their  faces  in  England,"  said  I,  splendide  mendax.  "And 
you  know  what  they  are  in  Alexandretta." 

"They  came  to  Aziza-Zaza's  wedding,"  said  Carlotta, 
behind  her  handkerchief.  "But  all  our  ladies  do  this 
when  they  want  to  make  themselves  look  nice.  And  I 
have  put  on  this  nasty  thing  that  hurts  me,  just  to  please 
Seer  Marcous." 

I  felt  I  had  been  brutal.  She  must  have  spent  hours  over 
her  adornment.  Yet  I  could  not  have  taken  her  out  into 
the  street.  She  looked  like  Jezebel,  who  without  her  paint 
must  have  been,  like  Carlotta,  a  remarkably  handsome 
person. 

"It  strikes  me,  Carlotta,"  said  I,  "that  you  will  find 
England  is  Alexandretta  upside  down.  What  is  wrong 
there  is  right  here,  and  vice  versa.  Now  if  you  want  to 
please  me  run  away  and  clean  yourself  and  take  off  those 
barbaric  and  Brummagem  earrings." 

She  went  and  was  absent  a  short  while.  She  returned 
in  dismay.  Water  would  not  get  it  off.  I  rang  for  Antoi- 
nette, but  Antoinette  had  gone  out.  It  being  too  delicate 
a  matter  for  Stenscn,  I  fetched  a  pot  of  vaseline  from  my 
own  room,  and  as  Carlotta  did  not  know  what  to  make  of 
5 


66       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

it}  I  with  my  own  hands  cleansed  Carlotta.  She  screamed 
with  delight,  thinking  it  vastly  amusing.  Her  emotions  are 
facile.  I  cannot  deny  that  it  amused  me  too.  But  I  am  in 
a  responsible  position,  and  I  am  wondering  what  the  deuce 
I  shall  be  doing  next. 

I  enjoyed  the  drive  to  Richmond,  where  I  gave  her  tea 
at  the  Star  and  Garter  and  was  relieved  to  see  her  drink 
normally  from  the  cup,  instead  of  lapping  from  the  saucer 
like  a  kitten.  She  was  much  more  intelligent  than  during 
our  first  drive  on  Tuesday.  The  streets  have  grown  more 
familiar,  and  the  traffic  does  not  make  her  head  ache.  She 
asks  me  the  ingenuous  questions  of  a  child  of  ten.  The  tall 
guardsmen  we  passed  particularly  aroused  her  enthusiasm. 
She  had  never  seen  anything  so  beautiful.  I  asked  her  if 
she  would  like  me  to  buy  one  and  give  it  her  to  play  with. 

"Oh,  would  you,  Seer  Marcous?"  she  exclaimed,  seiz- 
ing my  hand  rapturously.  I  verily  believe  she  thought  I 
was  in  earnest,  for  when  I  turned  aside  my  jest,  she  pouted 
in  disappointment  and  declared  that  it  was  wrong  to  tell 
lies. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  some  elementary  notions  of  ethics," 
said  I. 

It  was  during  our  drive  that  it  occurred  to  me  to  ask  her 
where  she  had  procured  the  paint  and  earrings.  She  ex- 
plained, cheerfully,  that  Antoinette  had  supplied  the  funds. 
I  must  talk  seriously  to  Antoinette.  Her  attitude  towards 
Carlotta  savours  too  much  of  idolatry.  Demoralisation  will 
soon  set  in,  and  the  utter  ruin  of  Carlotta  and  my  digestion 
will  be  the  result.  I  must  also  make  Carlotta  a  small  al- 
lowance. 

During  tea  she  said  to  me,  suddenly: 

"Seer  Marcous  is  not  married?" 

I  said,  no.  She  asked,  why  not  ?  The  devil  seems  to  be 
driving  all  womankind  to  ask  me  that  question. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       67 

"Because  wives  ar^  an  unmitigated  nuisance,"  said  I. 

A  curious  smile  came  over  Carlotta's  face.  It  was  as 
knowing  as  Dame  Quickly's. 

"Then—" 

"Have  one  of  these  cakes,"  said  I,  hurriedly.  "There 
is  chocolate  outside  and  the  inside  is  chock-full  of  custard." 

She  bit,  smiled  in  a  different  and  beatific  way,  and  for- 
got my  matrimonial  affairs.  I  was  relieved.  With  her 
oriental  training  there  is  no  telling  what  Carlotta  might 
have  said. 

May  3 is/. 

To-day  I  have  had  a  curious  interview.  Who  should 
call  on  me  but  the  father  of  the  hapless  Harry  Robinson. 
My  first  question  was  a  natural  one.  How  on  earth  did  he 
connect  me  with  the  death  of  his  son  ?  How  did  he  con- 
trive to  identify  me  as  the  befriender  of  th^  young  Turkish 
girl  whose  interests,  he  declared,  were  the  object  of  his 
visit?  It  appeared  that  the  police  had  given  him  the 
necessary  information,  my  adventures  at  Waterloo  having 
rendered  their  tracing  of  Carlotta  an  easy  matter.  I  had 
been  wondering  somewhat  at  the  meagre  newspaper  re- 
ports of  the  inquest.  No  mention  was  made,  as  I  had  ner- 
vously anticipated,  of  the  mysterious  lady  for  whom  the 
deceased  had  bought  a  ticket  at  Alexandretta,  and  with 
whom  he  had  come  ashore.  Very  little  evidence  appeared 
to  have  been  taken,  and  the  jury  contented  themselves 
with  giving  the  usual  verdict  of  temporary  insanity.  I 
touched  on  this  as  delicately  as  I  could. 

"We  succeeded  in  hushing  things  up,"  said  my  visitor, 
an  old  man  with  iron-grey  whiskers  and  a  careworn  sensi- 
tive face.  "I  have  some  influence  myself,  and  his  wife's 
relations — " 

"  His  wife' "  I  ejaculated    The  ways  of  men  are  further 


68       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

than  ever  from  interpretation.  The  fellow  was  actually 
married ! 

"Yes,"  he  sighed.  "That  is  what  would  have  made 
such  a  terrible  scandal.  Her  relatives  are  powerful  people. 
We  averted  it,  thank  Heaven,  and  his  poor  wife  will  never 
know.  My  boy  is  dead.  No  public  investigation  into  mo- 
tives would  bring  him  back  to  life  again." 

I  murmured  words  of  condolence. 

"He  must  have  been  out  of  his  mind,  poor  lad,  when  he 
induced  the  girl  to  run  away  with  him.  But,  as  my  son 
has  ruined  her,"  he  set  his  teeth  as  if  the  boy's  sin  stabbed 
him,  "I  must  look  after  her  welfare." 

"You  may  set  your  mind  at  rest  on  that  point,"  said  I. 
"He  smuggled  her  at  once  aboard  the  ship,  and  seems 
scarcely  to  have  said  how  d'ye  do  to  her  afterwards.  That 
is  the  mad  part  of  it." 

"Can  I  be  sure?" 

"I  would  stake  my  life  on  it,"  said  I. 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Frankness — I  may  say  embarrassing  frankness  is  one 
of  the  young  lady's  drawbacks." 

He  looked  greatly  relieved.  I  acquainted  him  with  Car- 
lotta's  antecedents,  and  outlined  the  part  I  had  played  in 
the  story. 

"Then,"  said  he,  "I  will  see  the  child  back  to  her  home. 
I  will  take  her  there  myself.  I  cannot  allow  you  any  longer 
to  have  the  burden  of  befriending  her,  when  it  is  my  duty 
to  repair  my  boy's  wrongdoing." 

I  explained  to  him  the  terror  of  Hamdi  Effendi's  clutches, 
and  told  him  of  my  promise. 

"Then  what  is  to  be  done?"  he  asked. 

"  If  any  kind  people  could  be  found  to  receive  her  into 
their  family,  and  bring  her  up  like  a  Christian,  I  should 
hand  her  over  with  the  greatest  of  pleasure.  If  there  is  one 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       69 

thing  I  do  not  require  in  this  house,  it  is  an  idle  and  irre- 
sponsible female.  But  philanthropists  are  rare.  Who  will 
take  her?" 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  not  prepared  to  do  that." 

"I  never  dreamed  of  having  the  bad  taste  to  propose 
it,"  said  I.  "I  merely  stated  the  only  alternative  to  my 
guardianship." 

"I  should  be  willing — only  too  willing — to  contribute 
towards  her  support,"  said  Mr.  Robinson. 

I  thanked  him.  But  of  course  this  was  impossible.  I 
might  as  well  have  allowed  the  good  man  to  pay  my  gas 
bill. 

"I  know  of  a  nice  convent  home  kept  by  the  Little  Sis- 
ters of  St.  Bridget,"  said  he,  tentatively. 

"If  it  were  St.  Bridget  herself,"  said  I,  "I  would  agree 
with  pleasure.  She  is  a  saint  for  whom  I  have  a  great  fas- 
cination. She  could  work  miracles.  When  an  Irish  chief- 
tain made  her  a  facetious  grant  of  as  much  land  as  she 
could  cover  with  her  mantle,  she  bade  four  of  her  nuns 
each  take  a  corner  and  run  north,  west,  south  and  east, 
until  her  cloak  covered  several  roods.  She  could  have 
done  the  same  with  the  soul  of  Carlotta.  But  the  age  of 
miracles  is  past,  and  I  fear  the  Little  Sisters  would  only 
break  their  gentle  hearts  over  her.  She  is  an  extraordinary 
creature." 

I  know  I  ought  to  have  given  some  consideration  to  the 
proposal;  but  I  think  I  must  suffer  from  chronic  inflamma- 
tion of  the  logical  faculty.  It  revolted  against  the  sug- 
gested congruity  of  Carlotta  and  the  Little  Sisters  of  St. 
Bridget. 

"What  can  she  be  like?"  asked  the  old  man,  wonder- 
ingly. 

"Would  it  pain  you  to  see  her?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.    "It  would.    But  per- 


70       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

haps  it  would  bring  me  nearer  to  my  unhappy  boy.    He 
seems  so  far  away." 

I  rang  the  bell  and  summoned  Carlotta. 

"Perhaps  you  had  better  not  say  who  you  are,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

When  Carlotta  entered,  he  rose  and  looked  at  her — oh, 
so  wistfully. 

"This,  Carlotta,"  said  I,  "is  a  friend  of  mine,  who 
would  like  to  make  your  acquaintance." 

She  advanced  shyly  and  held  out  a  timid  hand.  Obvi- 
ously she  was  on  her  best  behaviour.  I  thanked  heaven  she 
had  tried  her  unsuccessful  experiment  of  powder  and  paint 
on  my  vile  body  and  not  on  that  of  a  stranger. 

"Do  you — do  you  like  England?"  asked  the  old  man. 

"Oh,  very — very  much.  Every  one  is  so  kind  to  me. 
It  is  a  nice  place." 

"It  is  the  best  place  in  the  world  to  be  young  in,"  said 
he. 

"Is  it?"  said  Carlotta,  with  the  simplicity  of  a  baby. 

"The  very  best." 

"But  is  it  not  good  to  be  old  in?" 

"No  country  is  good  for  that." 

The  old  man  sighed  and  took  his  leave.  I  accompanied 
him  to  the  front  door. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say,  Sir  Marcus.  She  moves  me 
strangely.  I  never  expected  such  sweet  innocence.  For 
my  boy's  sake,  I  would  take  her  in — but  his  mother  knows 
nothing  about  it — save  that  the  boy  is  dead.  It  would  kill 
her." 

The  tears  rolled  down  the  old  man's  cheeks.  I  grasped 
him  by  the  hand. 

"She  shall  come  to  no  manner  of  harm  beneath  my 
roof,"  said  I. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       71 

Carlotta  was  waiting  for  me  in  the  drawing-room.  She 
looked  at  me  in  a  perplexed,  pitiful  way. 

"Seer  Marcous?" 

"Yes?" 

"Am  I  to  marry  him?" 

"Marry  whom?" 

"  That  old  gentleman.  I  must,  if  you  tell  me.  But  I  do 
not  want  to  many  him." 

It  took  me  a  minute  or  two  to  arrive  at  her  oriental 
point  of  view.  No  woman  could  be  shown  off  to  a  man 
except  in  the  light  of  a  possible  bride.  I  think  it  some- 
times good  to  administer  a  shock  to  Carlotta,  by  way  of 
treatment. 

"Do  you  know  who  that  old  gentleman  was?"  said  I. 

"No." 

"  It  was  Harry's  father." 

"Oh!"  she  said,  with  a  grimace.  "I  am  sorry  I  was  so 
nice  to  him." 

What  the  deuce  am  I  to  do  with  her? 

I  lectured  her  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  on  the  ethics  of 
the  situation.  I  think  I  only  succeeded  in  giving  her  the 
impression  that  I  was  in  a  bad  temper.  So  much  did  I 
sympathise  with  Harry  that  I  forbore  to  acquaint  her  with 
the  fact  that  he  was  a  married  man  when  he  enticed  her 
away  from  Alexandretta, 


CHAPTER  VI 
June  ist. 

Sebastian  Pasquale  dined  with  me  this  evening.  An- 
toinette, forgetful  of  idolatrous  practices,  devoted  the  con- 
centration of  her  being  to  the  mysteries  of  her  true  religion. 
The  excellence  of  the  result  affected  Pasquale  so  strongly 
that  with  his  customary  disregard  of  convention  he  in- 
sisted on  Antoinette  being  summoned  to  receive  his  con- 
gratulations. He  rose,  made  her  a  bow  as  if  she  were  a 
Marquise  of  pre-revolutionary  days. 

"It  is  a  meal,"  said  he,  bunching  up  his  fingers  to  his 
mouth  and  kissing  them  open,  "that  one  should  have 
taken  not  sitting,  but  kneeling." 

"You  stole  that  from  Heine,"  said  I,  when  the  enrap- 
tured creature  had  gone,  "and  you  gave  it  out  to  Antoi- 
nette as  if  it  were  your  own." 

"My  good  Ordeyne,"  said  he,  "did  you  ever  hear  of  a 
man  giving  anything  authentic  to  a  woman?" 

"You  know  much  more  about  the  matter  than  I  do,"  I 
replied,  and  Pasquale  laughed. 

It  has  been  a  pleasure  to  see  him  again — a  creature  of 
abounding  vitality  whom  time  cannot  alter.  He  is  as  lithe- 
limbed  as  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  as  lithe- witted.  I  don't 
know  how  his  consciousness  could  have  arrived  at  appre- 
ciation of  Antoinette's  cooking,  for  he  talked  all  through 
dinner,  giving  me  an  account  of  his  mirific  adventures  in 
foreign  cities.  Among  other  things,  he  had  been  playing 
juvenile  lead,  it  appears,  in  the  comic  opera  of  Bulgarian 
politics.  I  also  heard  of  the  Viennese  dancer.  My  own 
little  chronicle,  which  he  insisted  on  my  unfolding,  com- 

72 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       73 

pared  with  his  was  that  of  a  caged  canary  compared  with 
a  sparrow-hawk's.  Besides,  I  am  not  so  expansive  as  Pas- 
quale,  and  on  certain  matters  I  am  silent.  He  also  gestic- 
ulates freely,  a  thing  which  is  totally  foreign  to  my  nature. 
As  Judith  would  say,  he  has  a  temperament.  His  mous- 
taches curl  fiercely  upward  until  the  points  are  nearly  on  a 
level  with  his  flashing  dark  eyes.  Another  point  of  dis- 
similarity between  us  is  that  he  seems  to  have  been  poured 
molten  into  his  clothes,  whereas  mine  hang  as  from  pegs 
clumsily  arranged  about  my  person.  By  no  conceivable 
freak  of  outer  circumstance  could  I  have  the  adventures 
of  Pasquale. 

And  yet  he  thinks  them  tame!  Lord!  If  I  found  my- 
self hatching  conspiracies  in  Sofia  on  a  nest  made  of  loaded 
revolvers,  I  should  feel  that  the  wild  whirl  of  Bedlam  had 
broken  loose  around  me. 

"But  man  alive!"  I  cried.  "What  in  the  name  of  tor- 
nadoes do  you  want?" 

"I  want  to  fight,"  said  he.  "The  earth  has  grown  too 
grey  and  peaceful.  Life  is  anaemic.  We  need  colour — good 
red  splashes  of  it — good  wholesome  bloodshed." 

Said  I,  "All  you  have  to  do  is  to  go  into  a  Berlin  cafe" 
and  pull  the  noses  of  all  the  lieutenants  you  see  there.  In 
that  way  you'll  get  as  much  gore  as  your  heart  could  de- 
sire." 

"By  Jove!"  said  he,  springing  to  his  feet.  "What  a 
cause  for  a  man  to  devote  his  life  to — the  extermination  of 
Prussian  lieutenants!" 

I  leaned  back  in  my  arm-chair — it  was  after  dinner — 
and  smiled  at  his  vehemence.  The  ordinary  man  does  not 
leap  about  like  that  during  digestion. 

"You  would  have  been  happy  as  an  Uscoque,"  said  L 
(I  have  just  finished  the  prim  narrative.) 

"  What's  that  ?  "  he  asked.    I  told  him. 


74       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"The  interesting  thing  about  the  Uscoques,"  I  added, 
"is  that  they  were  a  Co-operative  Pirate  Society  of  the  six- 
teenth century,  in  which  priests  and  monks -and  green- 
grocers and  women  and  children — the  general  public,  in 
fact,  of  Segna — took  shares  and  were  paid  dividends. 
They  were  also  a  religious  people,  and  the  setting  out  of 
the  pirate  fleet  at  the  festivals  of  Easter  and  Christmas  was 
attended  by  ecclesiastical  ceremony.  Then  they  scoured 
the  high  seas,  captured  argosies,  murdered  the  crews — 
their  only  weapons  were  hatchets  and  daggers  and  arque- 
buses— landed  on  undefended  shores,  ravaged  villages  and 
carried  off  comely  maidens  to  replenish  their  stock  of 
womenkind  at  home.  They  must  have  been  a  live  lot  of 
people." 

"What  a  second-hand  old  brigand  you  are,"  cried  Pas- 
quale,  who  during  my  speech  had  been  examining  the  car- 
pet by  the  side  of  his  chair. 

I  laughed.  "Hasn't  a  phase  of  the  duality  of  our  nature 
ever  struck  you?  We  have  a  primary  or  everyday  nature 
— a  thing  of  habit,  tradition,  circumstance;  and  we  also 
have  a  secondary  nature  which  clamours  for  various  sensa- 
tions and  is  quite  contented  with  vicarious  gratification. 
There  are  delicately  fibred  novelists  who  satisfy  a  sort  of 
secondary  Berserkism  by  writing  books  whose  pages  reek 
with  bloodshed.  The  most  placid,  benevolent,  gold-spec- 
tacled paterfamilias  I  know,  a  man  who  thinks  it  cruel  to 
eat  live  oysters,  has  a  curious  passion  for  crime  and  grati- 
fies it  by  turning  his  study  into  a  musee  maccabre  of  mur- 
derers' relics.  From  the  thumb-joint  of  a  notorious  crim- 
inal he  can  savour  exquisitely  morbid  emotions,  while  the 
blood-stains  on  an  assassin's  knife  fill  him  with  the  de- 
licious lust  of  slaughter.  In  the  same  way  predestined 
spinsters  obtain  vicarious  enjoyment  of  the  tender  passion 
by  reading  highly  coloured  love-stories." 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       75 

"Just  as  that  philosophical  old  stick,  Sir  Marcus  Or- 
deyne, does  from  this  sort  of  thing,"  said  Pasquale. 

And  he  fished  from  the  side  of  his  chair,  and  held  up  by 
the  tip  of  a  monstrous  heel,  the  most  audacious,  high-in- 
stepped,  red  satin  slipper  I  ever  saw. 

I  eyed  the  thing  with  profound  disgust.  I  would  have 
given  a  hundred  pounds  for  it  to  have  vanished.  In  its  red 
satin  essence  it  was  reprehensible,  and  in  its  feminine  as- 
sertion it  was  compromising.  How  did  it  come  there? 
I  conjectured  that  Carlotta  must  have  been  trespassing 
in  the  drawing-room  and  dropped  it,  Cinderella-like,  in 
her  flight,  when  she  heard  me  enter  the  house  before 
dinner. 

Pasquale  held  it  up  and  regarded  me  quizzically.  I  pre- 
tend to  no  austerity  of  morals;  but  a  burglar  unjustly 
accused  of  theft  suffers  acuter  qualms  of  indignation  than 
if  he  were  a  virtuous  person.  I  regretted  not  having  asked 
Pasquale  to  dinner  at  the  club.  I  particularly  did  not  in- 
tend to  explain  Carlotta  to  Pasquale.  In  fact,  I  see  no  rea- 
son at  all  for  me  to  proclaim  her  to  my  acquaintance.  She 
is  merely  an  accident  of  my  establishment. 

I  rose  and  rang  the  bell. 

"That  slipper,"  said  I,  "does  not  belong  to  me,  and  it 
certainly  ought  not  to  be  here." 

Pasquale  surrendered  it  to  my  outstretched  hand. 

"It  must  fit  a  remarkably  pretty  foot,"  said  he. 

"I  assure  you,  my  dear  Pasquale,"  I  replied  dryly,  "I 
have  never  looked  at  the  foot  that  it  may  fit."  Nor  had  I. 
A  row  of  pink  toes  is  not  a  foot. 

"Stenson,"  said  I,  when  my  man  appeared,  "take  this 
to  Miss  Carlotta  and  say  with  my  compliments  she  should 
not  have  left  it  in  the  drawing-room." 

Stenson,  thinking  I  had  rung  for  whisky,  had  brought 
up  decanter  and  glasses.  As  he  set  the  tray  upon  the  small 


j6       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

table,  I  noticed  Pasquale  look  with  some  curiosity  at  my 
man's  impassive  face.  But  he  said  nothing  more  about  the 
slipper.  I  poured  out  his  whisky  and  soda.  He  drank  a 
deep  draught,  curled  up  his  swaggering  moustache  and 
suddenly  broke  into  one  of  his  disconcerting  peals  of 
laughter. 

"I  haven't  told  you  of  the  Grafin  von  Wentzel;  I  don't 
know  what  put  her  into  my  head.  There  has  been  noth- 
ing like  it  since  the  world  began.  Mind  you — a  real  live 
aristocratic  Grafin  with  a  hundred  quarterings ! " 

He  proceeded  to  relate  a  most  scandalous,  but  highly 
amusing  story.  An  amazing,  incredible  tale;  but  it  seemed 
familiar. 

"That,"  said  I,  at  last,  "is  incident  for  incident  a  scene 
out  of  UHistoire  Comique  de  Francion." 

"Never  heard  of  it,"  said  Pasquale,  flashing. 

"It  was  the  first  French  novel  of  manners  published 
about  1620,  and  written  by  a  man  called  Sorel.  I  don't 
dream  of  accusing  you  of  plagiarism,  my  dear  fellow — 
that's  absurd.  But  the  ridiculous  coincidence  struck  me. 
You  and  the  Grafin  and  the  rest  of  you  were  merely  re-en- 
acting a  three  hundred  year  old  farce." 

"Rubbish!"  said  Pasquale. 

"I'll  show  you,"  said  I. 

After  wandering  for  a  moment  or  two  round  my  shelves, 
I  remembered  that  the  book  was  in  the  dining-room.  I 
left  Pasquale  and  went  downstairs.  I  knew  it  was  on  one  of 
the  top  shelves  near  the  ceiling.  Now,  my  dining-room  is  lit 
by  one  shaded  electrolier  over  the  table,  so  that  the  walls 
of  the  room  are  in  deep  shadow.  This  has  annoyed  me 
many  times  when  I  have  been  book-hunting.  I  really  must 
have  some  top  lights  put  in.  To  stand  on  a  chair  and  burn 
wax  matches  in  order  to  find  a  particular  book  is  ignomin- 
ious and  uncomfortable.  The  successive  illumination  of 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       77 

four  wax  matches  did  not  shed  itself  upon  L'Histoire  Co- 
mique  de  Francion. 

If  there  is  one  thing  that  frets  me  more  than  another,  it 
is  not  to  be  able  to  lay  my  hand  upon  a  book.  I  knew 
Francion  was  there  on  the  top  shelves,  and  rather  than 
leave  it  undiscovered,  I  would  have  spent  the  whole  night 
in  search.  I  suppose  every  one  has  a  harmless  lunacy. 
This  is  mine.  I  must  have  hunted  for  that  book  for  twrenty 
minutes,  pulling  out  whole  blocks  of  volumes  and  peering 
with  lighted  matches  behind,  until  my  hands  were  covered 
with  dust.  At  last  I  found  it  had  fallen  to  the  rear  of  a 
ragged  regiment  of  French  novels,  and  in  triumph  I  took 
it  to  the  area  of  light  on  the  table  and  turned  up  the  scene 
in  question.  Keeping  my  thumb  in  the  place  I  returned 
to  the  drawing-room. 

"I'm  sorry  to  have — "  I  began.  I  stopped  short.  I 
could  scarcely  believe  my  eyes.  There,  conversing  with 
Pasquale  and  lolling  on  the  sofa,  as  if  she  had  known  him 
for  years,  was  Carlotta. 

She  must  have  seen  righteous  disapprobation  on  my 
face,  for  she  came  running  up  to  me. 

"  You  see,  I've  made  Miss  Carlotta's  acquaintance,"  said 
Pasquale. 

"  So  I  perceive,"  said  I. 

"  Stenson  told  me  you  wanted  me  to  come  to  the  draw- 
ing-room in  my  red  slippers,"  said  Carlotta. 

"I  am  afraid  Stenson  must  have  misdelivered  my  mes- 
sage," said  I. 

"  Then  you  do  not  want  me  at  all,  and  I  must  go  away?" 

Oh,  those  eyes!  I  am  growing  so  tired  of  them.  I  hesi- 
tated, and  was  lost. 

"  Please  let  me  stay  and  talk  to  Pasquale." 

"Mr.  Pasquale,"  I  corrected. 

She  echoed  my  words  with  a  cooing  laugh,  and  taking 


78       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

my  consent  for  granted,  curled  herself  up  in  a  corner  of 
the  sofa.  I  resumed  my  seat  with  a  sigh.  It  would  have 
been  boorish  to  turn  her  out. 

"This  is  much  nicer  than  Alexandretta,  isn't  it?"  said 
Pasquale  familiarly.  "And  Sir  Marcus  is  an  improve- 
ment on  Hamdi  Effendi." 

"  Oh,  yes.  Seer  Marcous  lets  me  do  whatever  I  like," 
said  Carlotta. 

"I'm  shot  if  I  do,"  I  exclaimed.  "The  confinement  of 
your  existence  in  the  East  makes  you  exaggerate  the  com- 
parative immunity  from  restriction  which  you  enjoy  in 
England." 

I  notice  that  Carlotta  is  always  impressed  when  I  use 
high  sounding  words. 

"Still,  if  you  could  make  love  over  garden  walls,  you 
must  have  had  a  pretty  slack  tune,  even  in  Alexandretta," 
said  Pasquale. 

Obviously  Carlotta  had  saved  me  the  trouble  of  ex- 
plaining her. 

"I  once  met  our  friend  Hamdi,"  Pasquale  continued. 
"He  was  the  politest  old  ruffian  that  ever  had  a  long  nose 
and  was  pitted  with  small-pox." 

"Yes,  yes!"  cried  Carlotta,  delighted.  "That  is 
Hamdi." 

"  Is  there  any  disreputable  foreigner  that  you  are  not  fa- 
miliar with?"  I  asked,  somewhat  sarcastically. 

"I  hope  not,"  he  laughed.  "You  must  know  I  had  got 
into  a  deuce  of  a  row  at  Aleppo,  about  eighteen  months  ago, 
and  had  to  take  to  my  heels.  Alexandretta  is  the  port  of 
Aleppo  and  Hamdi  is  a  sort  of  boss  policeman  there." 

"He  is  very  rich." 

"He  ought  to  be.  My  interview  with  him  cost  me  a 
thousand  pounds — the  bald-headed  scoundrel!" 

"He  is  a  shocking  bad  man,"  said  Carlotta,  gravely. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       79 

"I'm  afraid  it  is  Mr.  Pasquale  who  is  the  shocking  bad 
man,'1  I  said,  amused.  "What  had  you  been  doing  in 
Aleppo?" 

"Maocime  debetur,"  said  he. 

"  English  are  very  wicked  when  they  go  to  Syria,"  she 
remarked. 

"How  can  you  possibly  know?"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  replied  Carlotta,  with  a  toss  of  her  chin. 

"My  friend,"  said  Pasquale,  lighting  a  cigarette,  "I  have 
travelled  much  in  the  East,  and  have  had  considerable  ad- 
ventures by  the  way;  and  I  can  assure  you  that  what  the 
oriental  lady  doesn't  know  about  essential  things  is  not 
worth  knowing.  Their  life  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave  is 
a  concentration  of  all  their  faculties,  mortal  and  immortal, 
upon  the  two  vital  questions,  digestion  and  sex." 

"What  is  sex?"  asked  Carlotta. 

"It  is  the  Fundamental  Blunder  of  Creation,"  said  I. 

"I  do  not  understand,"  said  Carlotta. 

"Nobody  tries  to  understand  Sir  Marcus,"  said  Pas- 
quale, cheerfully.  "We  just  let  him  drivel  on  until  he  is 
aware  no  one  is  listening." 

"  Seer  Marcous  is  very  wise,"  said  Carlotta,  in  serious  de- 
fence of  her  lord  and  master.  "All  day  he  reads  in  big 
books  and  writes  on  paper." 

I  have  been  wondering  since  whether  that  is  not  as  iron- 
ical a  judgment  as  ever  was  passed.  Am  I  wise  ?  Is  wis- 
dom attained  by  reading  in  big  books  and  writing  on  pa- 
per ?  Solomon  remarks  that  wisdom  dwells  with  prudence 
and  finds  out  knowledge  of  witty  inventions;  that  the  wis- 
dom of  the  prudent  is  to  understand  his  way;  that  wisdom 
and  understanding  keep  one  from  the  strange  woman  and 
the  stranger  which  flattereth  with  her  words.  Now,  I  have 
not  been  saved  from  the  strange  young  woman  who  has 
begun  to  flatter  with  her  words ;  I  don't  in  the  least  under- 


80       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

stand  my  way,  since  I  have  no  notion  what  I  shall  do  with 
her;  and  in  taking  her  in  and  letting  her  loll  upon  my  sofa 
of  evenings,  so  as  to  show  off  her  red  slippers  to  my  guests, 
I  have  thrown  prudence  to  the  winds ;  and  my  only  witty 
invention  was  the  idea  of  teaching  her  type- writing,  which 
is  futile.  If  the  philosophy  of  the  excellent  aphorist  is 
sound,  I  certainly  have  not  much  wisdom  to  boast  of;  and 
none  of  the  big  books  will  tell  me  what  a  wise  man  would 
have  done  had  he  net  Carlotta  in  the  Embankment  Gar- 
dens. 

I  did  not  think,  however,  that  my  wisdom  was  a  proper 
subject  for  discussion.  I  jerked  back  the  conversation  by 
asking  Carlotta  why  she  called  Hamdi  Effendi  a  shocking 
bad  man.  Her  reply  was  startling. 

"  My  mother  told  me.  She  used  to  cry  all  day  long.  She 
was  sorry  she  married  Hamdi." 

"  Poor  thing ! "  said  I.    "  Did  he  ill-treat  her  ?  " 

"Oh,  ye-es.  She  had  small-pox,  too,  and  she  was  no 
longer  pretty,  so  Hamdi  took  other  wives  and  she  did  not 
like  them.  They  were  so  fat  and  cruel.  She  used  to  tell 
me  I  must  kill  myself  before  I  married  a  Turk.  Hamdi 
was  going  to  make  me  marry  Mohammed  Ali  one — two 
years  ago;  but  he  died.  When  I  said  I  was  so  glad"  (that 
seems  to  be  her  usual  formula  of  acknowledgment  of  news 
relating  to  the  disasters  of  her  acquaintance),  "Hamdi 
shut  me  up  in  a  dark  room.  Then  he  said  I  must  marry 
Mustapha.  That  is  why  I  ran  away  with  Harry.  See? 
Oh,  Hamdi  is  shocking  bad." 

From  this  and  from  other  side-lights  Carlotta  has  thrown 
on  her  upbringing,  I  can  realise  the  poor,  pretty  weak- 
willed  baby  of  a  thing  that  was  her  mother,  taking  the  line 
of  least  resistance,  the  husband  dead  and  the  babe  in  her 
womb,  and  entering  the  shelter  offered  by  the  amorous 
Turk.  And  I  can  picture  her  during  the  fourteen  years  of 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       81 

her  imprisoned  life,  the  disillusion,  the  heart-break,  the 
despair.  No  wonder  the  invertebrate  soul  could  do  no 
more  for  her  daughter  than  teach  her  monosyllabic  Eng- 
lish and  the  rudiments  of  reading  and  writing.  Doubtless 
she  babbled  of  western  life  with  its  freedom  and  joyous- 
ness  for  women;  but  four  years  have  elapsed  since  her 
death,  and  her  stories  are  only  elusive  memories  in  Car- 
lotta's  mind. 

It  is  strange  that  among  the  deadening  influences  of  the 
harem  she  has  kept  the  hereditary  alertness  of  the  English- 
woman. She  has  a  baby  mouth,  it  is  true;  she  pleads  to 
you  with  the  eyes  of  a  dog;  her  pretty  ways  are  those  of  a 
young  child;  but  she  has  not  the  dull,  soulless,  sensual  look 
of  the  pure-bred  Turkish  woman,  such  as  I  have  seen  in 
Cairo  through  the  transparent  veils.  In  them  there  is  no 
attraction  save  of  the  flesh;  and  that  only  for  the  male 
who,  deformity  aside,  reckons  women  as  merely  so  much 
cubical  content  of  animated  matter  placed  by  Allah  at  his 
disposal  for  the  satisfaction  of  his  desires  and  the  procrea- 
tion of  children.  I  cannot  for  the  lif  e  of  me  understand  an 
Englishman  falling  in  love  with  a  Turkish  woman.  But  I 
can  quite  understand  him  falling  in  love  with  Carlotta. 
The  hereditary  qualities  are  there,  though  they  have  been 
forced  into  the  channel  of  sex,  and  become  a  sort  of  dia- 
bolical witchery  whereof  I  am  not  quite  sure  whether  she 
is  conscious.  For  all  that,  I  don't  think  she  can  have  a 
soul.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  she  hasn't,  and  I  don't 
like  having  my  convictions  disturbed. 

Until  I  saw  her  perched  in  the  corner  of  the  sofa,  with 
her  legs  tucked  up  under  her,  and  the  light  playing  a  game 
of  magic  amid  the  reds  and  golds  and  browns  of  her  hair, 
while  she  cheerily  discoursed  to  us  of  Hamdi's  villainy,  I 
never  noticed  the  dull  decorum  of  this  room.  I  was  struck 
with  the  decorative  value  of  mere  woman. 
6 


82       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

I  must  break  myself  of  the  habit  of  wandering  off  on  a 
meditative  tangent  to  the  circle  of  conversation.  I  was 
brought  back  by  hearing  Pasquale  say: 

"  So  you're  going  to  marry  an  Englishman.  It's  all  fixed 
and  settled,  eh?" 

"Of  course,"  laughed  Carlotta. 

"Have  you  made  up  your  mind  what  he  is  to  be  like?" 

I  could  s*e  the  unconscionable  Don  Juan  instinctively 
preen  himself  peacock  fashion. 

"I  am  going  to  marry  Seer  Marcous,"  said  Carlotta, 
calmly. 

She  made  this  announcement  not  as  a  jest,  not  as  a  wish, 
but  as  the  commonplace  statement  of  a  fact.  There  was  a 
moment  of  stupefied  silence.  Pasquale  who  had  just 
struck  a  match  to  light  a  cigarette  stared  at  me  and  let  the 
flame  burn  his  fingers.  I  stared  at  Carlotta,  speechless. 
The  colossal  impudence  of  it! 

"I  am  sorry  to  contradict  you,"  said  I,  at  last,  with  some 
acidity,  "but  you  are  going  to  do  no  such  thing." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  marry  you  ?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"Oh!"  said  Carlotta,  in  a  tone  of  disappointment. 

Pasquale  rose,  brought  his  heels  together,  put  his  hand 
on  his  heart  and  made  her  a  low  bow. 

"Will  you  have  me  instead  of  this  stray  bit  of  Stone- 
henge?" 

"Very  well,"  said  Carlotta. 

I  seized  Pasquale  by  the  arm.  "For  goodness  sake, 
don't  jest  with  her!  She  has  about  as  much  sense  of  hu- 
mour as  a  prehistoric  cave-dweller.  She  thinks  you  have 
made  her  a  serious  offer  of  marriage." 

He  made  her  another  bow. 

"  You  hear  what  Sir  Granite  says  ?  He  forbids  our  union. 
If  I  married  you  without  his  consent,  he  would  flay  me 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       83 

alive,  dip  me  in  boiling  oil  and  read  me  aloud  his  History 
of  Renaissance  Morals.  So  I'm  afraid  it  is  no  good." 

"Then  I  mustn't  marry  him  either?"  asked  Carlotta, 
looking  at  me. 

"No!"  I  cried,  "you  are  not  going  to  marry  anybody. 
You  seem  to  have  hymenomania.  People  don't  marry  in 
this  casual  way  in  England.  They  think  over  it  for  a 
couple  of  years  and  then  they  come  together  in  a  sober, 
God-fearing,  respectable  manner." 

"They  marry  at  leisure  and  repent  in  haste,"  interposed 
Pasquale. 

"Precisely,"  said  I. 

"What  we  call  a  marriage-bed  repentance,"  said  Pas- 
quale. 

"I  told  you  this  poor  child  had  no  sense  of  humour,"  I 
objected. 

"  You  might  as  well  kill  yourself  as  marry  without  it." 

"You  are  not  going  to  marry  anybody,  Carlotta,"  said 
I,  "until  you  can  see  a  joke." 

"What  is  a  joke?"  inquired  Carlotta. 

"Mr.  Pasquale  asked  you  to  many  him.  He  didn't 
mean  it.  That  was  a  joke.  It  was  enormously  funny,  and 
you  should  have  laughed." 

"Then  I  must  laugh  when  any  one  asks  me  to  many 
him?" 

"As  loud  as  you  can,"  said  I. 

"You  are  so  strange  in  England,"  sighed  Carlotta. 

I  smiled,  for  I  did  not  want  to  make  her  unhappy,  and 
I  spoke  to  her  intelligibly. 

"Well,  well,  when  you  have  quite  learned  all  the  Eng- 
lish ways,  I'll  try  and  find  you  a  nice  husband.  Now  you 
had  better  go  to  bed." 

She  retired,  quite  consoled.  When  the  door  closed  be- 
hind her,  Pasquale  shook  his  head  at  me. 


84       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"  Wasted !    Criminally  wasted ! " 

"What?" 

"That,"  he  answered,  pointing  to  the  door.  "That 
bundle  of  bewildering  fascination." 

"That,"  said  I,  "is  an  horrible  infliction  which  only  my 
cultivated  sense  of  altruism  enables  me  to  tolerate." 

"Her  name  ought  to  be  Margarita." 

"Why?"  I  ttkad. 

"Ante  porcos"  said  he. 

Certainly  Pasquale  has  a  pretty  wit  and  I  admire  it  as  I 
admire  most  of  his  brilliant  qualities,  but  I  fail  to  see  the 
aptness  of  this  last  gibe.  At  the  club  this  afternoon  I 
picked  up  an  entertaining  French  novel  called  Enfilons 
des  Perks.  On  the  illustrated  cover  was  a  row  of  un- 
draped  damsels  sitting  in  oyster-shells,  and  the  text  of  the 
book  went  to  show  how  it  was  the  hero's  ambition  to  make 
a  rosary  of  these  pearls.  Now  I  am  a  dull  pig.  Why? 
Because  I  do  not  add  Carlotta  to  my  rosary.  I  never  heard 
such  a  monstrous  thing  in  my  life.  To  begin  with,  I  have 
no  rosary. 

I  wish  I  had  not  read  that  French  novel.  I  wish  I  had 
not  gone  downstairs  to  hunt  for  its  seventeenth  century  an- 
cestor. I  wish  I  had  given  Pasquale  dinner  at  the  club. 

It  is  all  the  fault  of  Antoinette.  Why  can't  she  cook  in 
a  middle-class,  unedifying  way  ?  All  this  comes  from  hav- 
ing in  the  house  a  woman  whose  soul  is  in  the  stew-pot. 


CHAPTER  VII 
July  ist. 

She  has  been  now  over  five  weeks  under  my  roof,  and  I 
have  put  off  the  evil  day  of  explaining  her  to  Judith;  and 
Judith  returns  to-morrow. 

I  know  it  is  odd  for  a  philosophic  bachelor  to  maintain 
in  his  establishment  a  young  and  detached  female  of  pre- 
possessing appearance.  For  the  oddity  I  care  not  two  pins. 
Jo  son''  io.  But  the  question  that  exercises  me  occasionally 
is:  In  what  category  are  my  relations  with  Carlotta  to 
be  classified?  I  do  not  regard  her  as  a  daughter;  still  less 
as  a  sister:  not  even  as  a  deceased  wife's  sister.  For  a  sec- 
retary she  is  too  abysmally  ignorant,  too  grotesquely  in- 
capable. What  she  knows  would  be  made  to  kick  the  beam 
against  the  erudition  of  a  guinea-pig.  Yet  she  must  be  classi- 
fied somehow.  I  must  allude  to  her  as  something.  At 
present  she  fills  the  place  in  the  house  of  a  pretty  (and  ex- 
pensive) Persian  cat;  and  like  a  cat  she  has  made  herself 
serenely  at  home. 

A  governess,  a  fat-cheeked  girl,  who  I  am  afraid  takes 
too  humorous  a  view  of  the  position,  comes  of  mornings 
to  instruct  Carlotta  in  the  rudiments  of  education.  When 
engaging  Miss  Griggs,  I  told  her  she  must  be  patient,  firm 
and,  above  all,  strong-minded.  She  replied  that  she  made 
a  professional  specialty  of  these  qualities,  one  of  her  pres- 
ent pupils  being  a  young  lady  of  the  Alhambra  ballet  who 
desires  the  particular  shade  of  cultivation  that  will  match 
a  new  brougham.  She  teaches  Carlotta  to  spell,  to  hold  a 
knife  and  fork,  and  corrects  such  erroneous  opinions  as  that 
the  sky  is  an  inverted  bowl  over  a  nice  flat  earth,  and  that 

85 


86       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

the  sun,  moon,  and  stars  are  a  sort  of  electric  light  installa- 
tion, put  into  the  cosmos  to  illuminate  Alexandretta  and 
the  Regent's  Park.  Her  religious  instruction  I  myself 
shall  attend  to,  when  she  is  sufficiently  advanced  to  un- 
derstand my  teaching.  At  present  she  is  a  Mohammedan, 
if  she  is  anything,  and  believes  firmly  in  Allah.  I  consider 
that  a  working  Theism  is  quite  enough  for  a  young  woman 
in  her  position  to  go  on  with.  In  the  afternoon  she 
walks  out  with  Antoinette.  Once  she  stole  forth  by  her- 
self, enjoyed  herself  hugely  for  a  short  time,  got  lost,  and 
was  brought  back  thoroughly  frightened  by  a  policeman. 
I  wonder  what  the  policeman  thought  of  her  ?  The  rest  of 
the  day  she  looks  at  picture-books  and  works  embroidery. 
She  is  making  an  elaborate  bed-spread  which  will  give  her 
harmless  occupation  for  a  couple  of  years. 

For  an  hour  every  evening,  when  I  am  at  home,  she 
comes  into  the  drawing-room  and  drinks  coffee  with  me 
and  listens  to  my  improving  conversation.  I  take  this  op- 
portunity to  rebuke  her  for  faults  committed  during  the 
day,  or  to  commend  her  for  especial  good  behaviour.  I 
also  supplement  the  instruction  in  things  in  general  that  is 
given  her  by  the  excellent  Miss  Griggs.  Oddly  enough  I 
am  beginning  to  look  forward  to  these  evening  hours.  She 
is  so  docile,  so  good-humoured,  so  spontaneous.  If  she 
has  a  pain  in  her  stomach,  she  says  so  with  the  most  en- 
gaging frankness.  Sometimes  I  think  of  her  only,  in  Pas- 
quale's  words,  as  a  bundle  of  fascination,  and  forget  that 
she  has  no  soul.  Nearly  always,  however,  something  hap- 
pens to  remind  me.  She  loves  me  to  tell  her  stories.  The 
other  night  I  solemnly  related  the  history  of  Cinderella. 
She  was  enchanted.  It  gave  me  the  idea  of  setting  her  to 
read  "Lamb's  Tales  from  Shakespeare."  I  was  turning 
this  over  in  my  mind  while  she  chewed  the  cud  of  her  en- 
joyment, when  she  suddenly  asked  whether  I  would  like 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne        87 

to  hear  a  Turkish  story.  She  knew  lots  of  nice,  funny  sto- 
ries. I  bade  her  proceed.  She  curled  herself  up  in  her  fa- 
vourite attitude  on  the  sofa  and  began. 

I  did  not  allow  her  to  finish  that  tale.  Had  I  done  so,  I 
should  have  been  a  monster  of  depravity.  Compared  with 
it  the  worst  of  Scheherazade's,  in  Burton's  translation,  were 
milk  and  water  for  a  nunnery.  She  seemed  nonplussed 
when  I  told  her  to  stop. 

"Are  oriental  ladies  in  the  habit  of  telling  such  sto- 
ries?" I  asked. 

"Why,  yes,"  she  replied  with  a  candid  air  of  astonish- 
ment. "  It  is  a  funny  story." 

"  There  is  nothing  funny  whatever  in  it,"  said  I.  "  A  girl 
like  you  oughtn't  to  know  of  the  existence  of  such  things." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Carlotta. 

I  am  always  being  caught  up  by  her  questions.  I  tried 
to  explain;  but  it  was  difficult.  If  I  had  told  her  that  a 
maiden's  mind  ought  to  be  as  pure  as  the  dewy  rose  she 
would  not  have  understood  me.  Probably  she  would  have 
thought  me  a  fool.  And  indeed  I  am  inclined  to  question 
whether  it  is  an  advantage  to  a  maiden's  after  career  to  be 
dewy-rose-like  in  her  unsophistication.  In  order  to  play 
tunes  indifferently  well  on  the  piano  she  undergoes  the 
weary  training  of  many  years;  but  she  is  called  upon  to 
display  the  somewhat  more  important  accomplishment  of 
bringing  children  into  the  world  without  an  hour's  educa- 
tional preparation.  The  difficulty  is,  where  to  draw  the  line 
between  this  dewy,  but  often  disastrous,  ignorance  and  Car- 
lotta's  knowledge.  I  find  it  a  most  delicate  and  embarrass- 
ing problem.  In  fact,  the  problems  connected  with  this 
young  woman  seem  endless.  Yet  they  do  not  disturb  me 
as  much  as  I  had  anticipated.  I  really  believe  I  should 
miss  my  pretty  Persian  cat.  A  man  must  be  devoid  of  all 
aesthetic  sense  to  deny  that  she  is  delightful  to  look  at. 


88       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

And  she  has  a  thousand  innocent  coquetries  and  cajoling 
ways.  She  has  a  manner  of  holding  chocolate  creams  to 
her  white  teeth  and  talking  to  you  at  the  same  time  which 
is  peculiarly  fascinating.  And  she  must  have  some  sense. 
To-night  she  asked  me  what  I  was  writing  I  replied,  "A 
History  of  the  Morals  of  the  Renaissance." 

"What  are  morals  and  what  is  the  Renaissance?"  asked 
Carlotta. 

When  you  come  to  think  of  it,  it  is  a  profound  question, 
which  philosophers  and  historians  have  wasted  vain  lives 
in  trying  to  answer.  I  perceive  that  I  too  must  try  to  an- 
swer it  with  a  certain  amount  of  definition.  I  have  spent 
the  evening  remodelling  my  Introduction,  so  as  to  define 
the  two  terms  axiomatically  with  my  subsequent  argument, 
and  I  find  it  greatly  improved.  Now  this  is  due  to  Carlotta. 

The  quantity  of  chocolate  creams  the  child  eats  cannot 
be  good  for  her  digestion.  I  must  see  to  this. 

July  zd. 

A  telegram  from  Judith  to  say  she  postpones  her  return 
to  Monday.  I  have  been  longing  to  see  the  dear  woman 
again,  and  I  am  greatly  disappointed.  At  the  same  time 
it  is  a  respite  from  an  explanation  that  grows  more  difficult 
every  day.  I  hate  myself  for  the  sense  of  relief. 

This  morning  came  an  evening  dress  for  Carlotta  which 
has  taken  a  month  in  the  making.  This,  I  am  given  to  un- 
derstand, is  delirious  speed  for  a  London  dress-maker. 
To  celebrate  the  occasion  I  engaged  a  box  at  the  Empire 
for  this  evening  and  invited  her  to  dine  with  me.  I  sent  a 
note  of  invitation  round  to  Mrs.  McMurray. 

Carlotta  did  not  come  down  at  half-past  seven.  We 
waited.  At  last  Mrs.  McMurray  went  up  to  the  room  and 
presently  returned  shepherding  a  shy,  blushing,  awkward, 
piteous  young  person  who  had  evidently  been  crying.  My 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne        89 

friend  signed  to  me  to  take  no  notice.  I  attributed  the 
child's  lack  of  gaiety  to  the  ordeal  of  sitting  for  the  first 
"Mme  in  her  life  at  a  civilised  dinner-table.  She  scarcely 
spoke  and  scarcely  ate.  I  complimented  her  on  her  ap- 
pearance and  she  looked  beseechingly  at  me,  as  if  I  were 
scolding  her.  After  dinner  Mrs.  McMurray  told  me  the 
reason  of  her  distress.  She  had  found  Carlotta  in  tears. 
Never  could  she  face  me  in  that  low  cut  evening  bodice.  It 
outraged  her  modesty.  It  could  not  be  the  practice  of  Eu- 
ropean women  to  bare  themselves  so  immodestly  before 
men.  It  was  only  the  evidence  of  her  visitor's  own  plump 
neck  and  shoulders  that  convinced  her,  and  she  suffered 
herself  to  be  led  downstairs  in  an  agony  of  self-conscious- 
ness. 

When  we  entered  the  box  at  the  Empire,  a  troupe  of  fe- 
male acrobats  were  doing  their  turn.  Carlotta  uttered  a 
gasp  of  dismay,  blushed  burning  red,  and  shrank  back  to 
the  door.  There  is  no  pretence  about  Carlotta.  She  was 
shocked  to  the  roots  of  her  being. 

"They  are  naked!"  she  said,  quiveringly. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  explain,"  said  I  to  Mrs.  McMurray, 
and  I  beat  a  hasty  retreat  to  the  promenade. 

When  I  returned,  Carlotta  had  been  soothed  down. 
She  was  watching  some  performing  dogs  with  intense  won- 
derment and  delight.  For  the  rest  of  the  evening  she  sat 
spell-bound.  The  exiguity  of  costume  in  the  ballet  caused 
her  indeed  to  glance  in  a  frightened  sort  of  way  at  Mrs. 
McMurray,  who  reassured  her  with  a  friendly  smile,  but 
the  music  and  the  maze  of  motion  and  the  dazzle  of  colour 
soon  held  her  senses  captive,  and  when  the  curtain  came 
down  she  sighed  like  one  awaking  from  a  dream. 

As  we  drove  home,  she  asked  me : 

"  Is  it  like  that  all  day  long  ?  Oh,  please  to  let  me  live 
there!" 


90      The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

A  nice  English  girl  of  eighteen  would  not  flaunt  uncon- 
cerned about  my  drawing-room  in  a  shameless  dressing- 
gown,  and  crinkle  up  her  toes  in  front  of  me;  still  less 
would  she  tell  me  outrageous  stories;  but  she  will  wear 
low-necked  dresses  and  gaze  at  ladies  in  tights  without  the 
ghost  of  an  immodest  thought.  I  was  right  when  I  told 
Carlotta  England  was  Alexandretta  upside-down.  What 
is  immoral  here  is  moral  there,  and  vice-versa.  There  is 
no  such  thing  as  absolute  morality.  I  am  very  glad  this 
has  happened.  It  shows  me  that  Carlotta  is  not  devoid  of 
the  better  kind  of  feminine  instincts. 


CHAPTER 
July  4th. 

Judith  has  come  back.  I  have  seen  her  and  I  have  ex- 
plained Carlotta. 

All  day  long  I  felt  like  a  respectable  person  about  to  be 
brought  before  a  magistrate  for  being  drunk  and  disor- 
derly. Now  I  have  the  uneasy  satisfaction  of  having  been 
let  off  with  a  caution.  I  am  innocent,  but  I  mustn't  do  it 
again. 

As  soon  as  I  entered  the  room  Judith  embraced  me,  and 
said  a  number  of  foolish  things.  I  responded  to  the  best 
of  my  ability.  It  is  not  usual  for  our  quiet  lake  of  affection 
to  be  visited  by  such  tornadoes. 

"  Oh,  I  am  glad,  I  am  glad  to  be  back  with  you  again. 
I  have  longed  for  you.  I  couldn't  write  it.  I  did  not  know 
I  could  long  for  any  one  so  much." 

"I  have  missed  you  immensely,  my  dear  Judith,"  said  I. 

She  looked  at  me  queerly  for  a  moment;  then  with  a 
radiant  smile: 

"  I  love  you  for  not  going  into  transports  like  a  French- 
man. Oh,  I  am  tired  of  Frenchmen.  You  are  my  good 
English  Marcus,  and  worth  all  masculine  Paris  put  to- 
gether." 

"I  thank  you,  my  dear,  for  the  compliment,"  said  I, 
"but  surely  you  must  exaggerate." 

"To  me  you  are  worth  the  masculine  universe,"  said 
Judith,  and  she  seated  me  by  her  side  on  the  sofa,  held  my 
hands,  and  said  more  foolish  things. 

When  the  tempest  had  abated,  I  laughed. 

"It  is  you  that  have  acquired  the  art  of  transports  in 
Paris,"  said  I. 

91 


92       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeynt 

"  Perhaps  I  have.    Shall  I  teach  you  ?  " 

"You  will  have  to  learn  moderation,  my  dear  Judith," 
I  remarked.  "You  have  been  living  too  rapidly  of  late 
and  are  looking  tired." 

"It  is  only  the  journey,"  she  replied. 

I  am  sure  it  is  the  unaccustomed  dissipation.  Judith  is 
not  a  strong  woman,  and  late  hours  and  eternal  gadding 
about  do  not  suit  her  constitution.  She  has  lost  weight 
and  there  are  faint  circles  under  her  eyes.  There  are  lines, 
too,  on  her  face  which  only  show  in  hours  of  physical 
strain.  I  was  proceeding  to  expound  this  to  her  at  some 
length,  for  I  consider  it  well  for  women  to  have  some  one 
to  counsel  them  frankly  in  such  matters,  when  she  inter- 
rupted me  with  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"There,  there!  Tell  me  what  you  have  been  doing  with 
yourself.  Your  letters  gave  me  very  little  information." 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  I,  "  I  am  a  poor  letter  writer." 

"I  read  each  ten  times  over,"  she  said. 

I  kissed  her  hand  in  acknowledgment.  Then  I  rose,  lit 
a  cigarette  and  walked  about  the  room.  Judith  shook  out 
her  skirts  and  settled  herself  comfortably  among  the  sofa- 
cushions. 

"Well,  what  crimes  have  you  been  committing  the  past 
few  weeks?" 

A  wandering  minstrel  was  harping  "Love's  Sweet 
Dream"  outside  the  public-house  below.  I  shut  the 
window,  hastily. 

"Nothing  so  bad  as  that,"  said  I.  "He  ought  to  be 
hung  and  his  wild  harp  hung  behind  him." 

"You  are  developing  nerves,"  said  Judith.  "Is  it  a 
guilty  conscience?"  She  laughed.  "You  are  hiding 
something  from  me.  I've  been  aware  of  it  all  the  time." 

"Indeed?    How?" 

"By  the  sixth  sense  of  woman!" 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne        93 

Confound  the  sixth  sense  of  woman!  I  suppose  it  has 
been  developed  like  a  cat's  whiskers  to  supply  the  defi- 
ciency of  a  natural  scent.  Also,  like  the  whiskers,  it  is  ob- 
trusive, and  a  matter  for  much  irritatingly  complacent  pride. 
Judith  regarded  me  with  a  mock  magisterial  air,  and  I  was 
put  into  the  dock  at  once. 

"Something  has  happened,"  I  said,  desperately.  "A 
female  woman  has  come  and  taken  up  her  residence  at  26 
Lingfield  Terrace.  A  few  weeks  ago  she  ate  with  her  fin- 
gers and  believed  the  earth  was  flat.  I  found  her  in  the 
Victoria  Embankment  Gardens  beneath  the  terrace  of  the 
National  Liberal  Club,  and  now  she  lives  on  chocolate 
creams  and  the  'Child's  Guide  to  Knowledge.'  She  is 
eighteen  and  her  name  is  Carlotta.  There!" 

As  my  cigarette  had  gone  out,  I  threw  it  with  some  peev- 
ishness into  the  grate.  Judith's  expression  had  changed 
from  mock  to  real  gravity.  She  sat  bolt  upright  and  looked 
at  me  somewhat  stonily. 

"What  in  the  world  do  you  mean,  Marcus?" 

"What  I  say.  I'm  saddled  with  the  responsibility  of  a 
child  of  nature  as  unsophisticated  and  perplexing  as  Vol- 
taire's Huron.  She's  English  and  she  came  from  a  harem 
in  Syria,  and  she  is  as  beautiful  as  the  houris  she  believes 
in  and  is  unfortunately  precluded  from  joining.  One  of 
these  days  I  shall  be  teaching  her  her  catechism.  I  have 
already  washed  her  face.  Kindly  pity  me  as  the  innocent 
victim  of  fantastic  circumstances." 

"I  don't  see  why  I  should  pity  you,"  said  Judith. 

I  felt  I  had  not  explained  Carlotta  tactfully.  If  there 
are  ten  ways  of  doing  a  thing  I  have  noticed  that  I  invari- 
ably select  the  one  way  that  is  wrong.  I  perceived  that 
somehow  or  other  the  very  contingency  I  had  feared  had 
come  to  pass.  I  had  prejudiced  Judith  against  Carlotta. 
I  had  aroused  the  Ishmaelite — her  hand  against  every 


94       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

woman  and  every  woman's  hand  against  her — that  sui* 
vives  in  all  her  sex. 

"My  dear  Judith,"  said  I,  "if  a  wicked  fairy  godmother 
had  decreed  that  a  healthy  rhinoceros  should  be  my  house- 
mate you  would  have  extended  me  your  sympathy.  But 
because  Fate  has  inflicted  on  me  an  equally  embarrassing 
guest  in  the  shape  of  a  young  woman — " 

"My  dear  Marcus,"  interrupted  Judith,  "the  healthy 
rhinoceros  would  know  twenty  times  as  much  about  women 
as  you  do."  This  I  consider  one  of  the  silliest  remarks  Ju- 
dith has  ever  made.  "  Do,"  she  continued,  "tell  me  some- 
thing coherent  about  this  young  person  you  call  Carlotta." 

I  told  the  story  from  beginning  to  end. 

"But  why  in  the  world  did  you  keep  it  from  me?"  she 
asked. 

"I  mistrusted  the  sixth  sense  of  woman,"  said  I. 

"  The  most  elementary  sense  of  woman  or  any  one  else 
would  have  told  you  that  you  were  doing  a  very  foolish 
thing." 

"How  would  you  have  acted?"  . 

"I  should  have  handed  her  over  at  once  to  the  Turkish 
consulate." 

"Not  if  you  had  seen  her  eyes." 

Judith  tossed  her  head.  "Men  are  all  alike,"  she  ob- 
served. 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  I,  "that  which  characterises 
men  as  a  sex  is  their  greater  variation  from  type  than 
women.  It  is  a  scientific  fact.  You  will  find  it  stated  by 
Darwin  and  more  authoritatively  still  by  later  writers. 
The  highest  common  factor  of  a  hundred  women  is  far 
greater  than  that  of  a  hundred  men.  The  abnormal  is 
more  frequent  in  the  male  sex.  There  are  more  male 
monsters." 

"That  I  can  quite  believe,"  snapped  Judith. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       95 

"Then  you  agree  with  me  that  men  are  not  all  alike?" 

"I  certainly  don't.  Put  any  one  of  you  before  a  pretty 
face  and  a  pair  of  silly  girl's  eyes  and  he  is  a  perfect  idiot." 

"My  dear  Judith,"  said  I,  "I  don't  care  a  hang  for  a 
pretty  face — except  yours." 

"  Do  you  really  care  about  mine  ?  "  she  asked  wistfully. 

"My  dear,"  said  I,  dropping  on  one  knee  by  the  sofa, 
and  taking  her  hand,  "I've  been  longing  for  it  for  six 
weeks."  And  I  counted  the  weeks  on  her  fingers. 

This  put  her  in  a  good  humour.  Now  that  I  come  to 
think  of  it,  there  is  something  adorably  infantile  in  grown 
up  women.  Shall  man  ever  understand  them?  I  have 
seen  babies  (not  many,  I  am  glad  to  say)  crow  with  delight 
at  having  their  toes  pulled,  with  a  "this  little  pig  went  to 
market,"  and  so  forth;  Judith  almost  crowed  at  having 
the  weeks  told  off  on  her  fingers.  Queer! 

An  hour  was  taken  up  with  the  account  of  her  doings  in 
Paris.  She  had  met  all  the  nicest  and  naughtiest  people. 
She  had  been  courted  and  flattered.  An  artist  in  a  slouch 
hat,  baggy  corduroy  breeches,  floppy  tie  and  general  1830 
misfit  had  made  love  to  her  on  the  top  of  the  Eiffel 
Tower. 

"And  he  said,"  laughed  Judith,  "'Partons  ensemble. 
Comme  on  dit  en  Anglais — fly  with  me!'  I  remarked  that 
our  state  when  we  got  to  the  Champs  de  Mars  would  be  an 
effective  disguise.  He  didn't  understand,  and  it  was  de- 
licious!" 

I  laughed.  "All  the  same,"  I  observed,  "I  can't  see  the 
fun  of  making  jokes  which  the  person  to  whom  you  make 
them  doesn't  see  the  point  of." 

"Why,  that's  your  own  peculiar  form  of  humour,"  she 
retorted.  "I  caught  the  trick  from  you." 

Perhaps  she  is  right.    I  have  noticed  that  people  are 


g6       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

slow  in  their  appreciation  of  my  witticisms.  I  must  really 
be  a  very  dull  dog.  If  she  were  not  fond  of  me  I  don't  see 
how  a  bright  woman  like  Judith  could  tolerate  my  society 
for  half  an  hour. 

I  don't  think  I  contribute  to  the  world's  humour;  but 
the  world's  humour  contributes  much  to  my  own  enter- 
tainment, and  things  which  appear  amusing  to  me  do  not 
appeal,  when  I  point  them  out,  to  the  risible  faculties  of 
another.  Every  individual,  I  suppose,  like  every  civilisa- 
tion, must  have  hi?  own  standard  of  humour.  If  I  were  a 
Roman  (instead  of  an  English)  Epicurean,  I  should  have 
died  with  laughter  at  the  sight  of  a  fat  Christian  martyr 
scudding  round  the  arena  while  chased  by  a  hungry  lion. 
At  present  I  should  faint  with  horror.  Indeed,  I  always 
feel  tainted  with  savagery  and  enjoying  a  vicarious  lust, 
when  I  smile  at  the  oft-repeated  tale  of  the  poor  tiger  in 
Dore"'s  picture  that  hadn't  got  a  Christian.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  tickles  me  immensely  to  behold  a  plethoric  com- 
monplace Briton  roar  himself  purple  with  impassioned 
platitude  at  a  political  meeting;  but  I  perceive  that  all  my 
neighbours  take  him  with  the  utmost  seriousness.  Again, 
your  literary  journalist  professes  to  wriggle  in  his  chair 
over  the  humour  of  Jane  Austen;  to  me  she  is  the  dullest 
lady  that  ever  faithfully  photographed  the  trivial.  Years 
ago  I  happened  to  be  crossing  Putney  Bridge,  in  a  frock- 
coat  and  silk  hat,  when  a  passing  member  of  the  proletariat 
dug  his  elbows  in  his  comrade's  ribs  and,  quoting  a  music- 
hall  tag  of  the  period,  shouted  "He's  got  'em  on!"  where- 
upon both  burst  into  peals  of  robustious  but  inane  laugh- 
ter. Now,  if  I  had  turned  to  them,  and  said,  "He  would 
be  funnier  if  I  hadn't,"  and  paraphrased,  however  wittily, 
Carlyle's  ironical  picture  of  a  nude  court  of  St.  James's, 
they  would  have  punched  my  head  under  the  confused 
idea  that  I  was  trying  to  bamboozle  them.  Which  brings 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       97 

»e  to  my  point  of  departure,  my  remark  to  Judith  as  to  the 
futility  of  jesting  to  unpercipient  ears. 

I  did  not  take  up  her  retort. 

"And  what  was  the  end  of  the  romance?"  I  asked. 

"He  borrowed  twenty  francs  of  me  to  pay  for  the 
dejeuner,  and  his  VannSe  trente  delicacy  of  soul  compelled 
him  to  blot  my  existence  forever  from  his  mind." 

"He  never  repaid  you?"  I  asked. 

"For  a  humouristic  philosopher,"  cried  Judith,  "you 
are  delicious!" 

Judith  is  too  fond  of  that  word  "delicious."  She  uses 
it  in  season  and  out  of  season. 

We  have  the  richest  language  that  ever  a  people  has 
accreted,  and  we  use  it  as  if  it  were  the  poorest.  We  hoard 
up  our  infinite  wealth  of  words  between  the  boards  of  dic- 
tionaries and  in  speech  dole  out  the  worn  bronze  coinage 
of  our  vocabulary.  We  are  the  misers  of  philological  his- 
tory. And  when  we  can  save  our  pennies  and  pass  the 
counterfeit  coin  of  slang,  we  are  as  happy  as  if  we  heard  a 
blind  beggar  thank  us  for  putting  a  pewter  sixpence  into 
his  hat. 

I  said  something  of  the  sort  to  Judith,  after  she  had  re- 
sumed her  seat  and  I  had  opened  the  window,  the  minstrel 
having  wandered  to  the  next  hostelry,  where  the  process  of 
converting  "Love's  Sweet  Dream"  into  a  nightmare  was 
still  faintly  audible.  Judith  looked  at  me  whimsically,  as 
I  stood  breathing  the  comparatively  fresh  air  and  enjoying 
the  relative  silence. 

"You  are  still  the  same,  I  am  glad  to  see.  Conversation 
with  the  young  savage  from  Syria  hasn't  altered  you  in  the 
least." 

"In  the  first  place,"  said  I,  "savages  do  not  grow  in 
Syria;  and  in  the  second,  how  could  she  have  altered  me?" 

"If  the  heavens  were  to  open  and  the  New  Jerusalem 
7 


98       The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

te  appear  thi*  moment  before  you,"  retorted  Judith,  with 
the  relevant  irrelevance  of  her  sex,  "you  would  begin 
an  unconcerned  disquisition  on  the  iconography  of  an- 
gels." 

I  sat  on  the  sofa  end  and  touched  one  of  her  little  pink 
ears.  She  has  pretty  ears.  They  were  the  first  of  things 
physical  about  her  that  attracted  me  to  her  years  ago  in 
the  Roman  pension — they  and  the  mass  of  silken  flax  that 
is  her  hair,  and  her  violet  eyes. 

"  Did  you  learn  that  particular  way  of  talking  in  Paris  ?" 
I  asked. 

She  had  the  effrontery  to  say  she  was  imitating  me  and 
that  it  was  a  very  good  imitation  indeed. 

We  talked  about  the  book.  I  touched  upon  the  great 
problem  that  requires  solution — the  harmonising  and  jus- 
tifying of  the  contradictory  opposites  in  Renaissance  char- 
acter: Fra  Lippo  Lippi  breaking  his  own  vows  and  breaking 
a  nun's  for  her;  Perugino  leading  his  money-grubbing,  mo- 
rose life  and  painting  ethereal  saints  and  madonnas  in  his 
bottega,  while  the  Baglioni  rilled  the  streets  outside  with 
slaughter;  Lorenzo  de'  Medici  bleeding  literally  and  figura- 
tively his  fellow-citizens,  going  from  that  occupation  to  his 
Platonic  Academy  and  disputing  on  the  immortality  of  the 
soul,  winding  up  with  orgies  of  sensual  depravity  with  his 
boon  companion  Pulci,  and  all  the  time  making  himself 
an  historic  name  for  statecraft;  Pope  Sixtus  IV,  at  the  very 
heart  of  the  Pazzi  conspiracy  to  murder  the  Medici — 

"And  Pope  Nicholas  V  when  drunk  ordering  a  man  to  be 
executed,  and  being  sorry  for  it  when  sober,"  said  Judith. 

It  is  wonderful  how  Judith,  with  her  quite  unspecialised 
knowledge  of  history  can  now  and  then  put  her  finger 
upon  something  vital.  I  have  been  racking  my  brain  and 
searching  my  library  for  the  past  two  or  three  days  for  an 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordcyne       99 

illustration  of  just  that  nature.  I  had  not  thought  of  it. 
Here  is  Tomaso  da  Sarzana,  a  quiet,  retired  schoolmaster, 
like  myself,  an  editor  of  classical  texts,  a  peaceful  libra- 
rian of  Cosmo  de'  Medici,  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman  to  the 
tips  of  his  fingers;  he  is  made  Pope,  a  King  Log  to  save 
the  cardinalate  from  a  possible  King  Stork  Colonna;  the 
Porcari  conspiracy  breaks  out,  is  discovered  and  the  con- 
spirators are  hunted  over  Italy  and  put  to  death ;  a  gentle- 
man called  Anguillara  is  slightly  inculpated;  he  is  invited 
to  Rome  by  Nicholas,  and  given  a  safe-conduct;  when  he 
arrives  the  Pope  is  drunk  (at  least  Stefano  Infessura,  the 
contemporary  diarist,  says  so) ;  the  next  morning  his  Ho- 
liness finds  to  his  surprise  and  annoyance  that  the  gentle- 
man's head  has  been  cut  off  by  his  orders.  It  is  an  amaz- 
ing tale.  To  realise  how  amazing  it  is,  one  must  picture 
the  fantastic  possibility  of  it  happening  at  the  Vatican  now- 
adays. And  the  most  astounding  thing  is  this:  that  if  all 
the  dead  and  gone  popes  were  alive,  and  the  soul  of  the 
saintly  Pontiff  of  to-day  were  to  pass  from  him,  the  one  who 
could  most  undetected  occupy  his  simulacrum  would  be 
this  very  Thomas  of  Sarzana. 

"Pardon  me,  my  dear  Judith,"  said  I.  "But  this  is  a 
story  lying  somewhat  up  one  of  the  back-waters  of  history. 
Where  did  you  come  across  it?" 

"I  saw  it  the  other  day  in  a  French  comic  paper,"  re- 
plied Judith. 

I  really  don't  know  which  to  admire  the  more:  the  in- 
consequent way  in  which  the  French  toss  about  scholar- 
ship, or  the  marvellous  power  of  assimilation  possessed  by 
Judith. 

Before  we  separated  she  returned  to  the  subject  of  Car- 
lotta. 
"Am  I  to  see  this  young  creature?"  she  asked. 


loo    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"That  is  just  as  you  choose,"  said  I. 

"Oh!  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  my  dear  Marcus,  I  am 
perfectly  indifferent,"  replied  Judith,  assuming  the  super- 
cilious expression  with  which  women  invariably  try  to 
mask  inordinate  curiosity. 

"Then,"  said  I,  with  a  touch  of  malice,  "there  is  no 
reason  why  you  should  make  her  acquaintance." 

"I  should  be  able  to  see  through  her  tricks  and  put  you 
on  your  guard." 

"Against  what?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  as  if  it  were  vain  to  waste 
breath  on  so  obtuse  a  person. 

"You  had  better  bring  her  round  some  afternoon,"  she 
said. 

J3ave  I  acted  wisely  in  confessing  Carlotta  to  Judith? 
And  why  do  I  use  the  word  "confess"  ?  Far  from  having 
committed  an  evil  action,  I  consider  I  have  exhibited  ex- 
emplary altruism.  Did  I  want  a  "young  savage  from 
Syria"  to  come  and  interfere  with  my  perfectly  ordered 
life  ?  Judith  does  not  realise  this.  I  had  a  presentiment 
of  the  prejudice  she  would  conceive  against  the  poor  girl, 
and  now  it  has  been  verified.  I  wish  I  had  held  my  tongue. 
As  Judith,  for  some  feminine  reason  known  only  to  herself, 
has  steadily  declined  to  put  her  foot  inside  my  house,  she 
might  very  well  have  remained  unsuspicious  of  Carlotta's 
existence.  And  why  not  ?  The  fact  of  the  girl  being  my 
pensioner  does  not  in  the  least  affect  the  personality  which 
I  bring  to  Judith.  The  idea  is  absurd.  Why  wasn't  I  wise 
before  the  event  ?  I  might  have  spared  myself  considerable 
worry. 

A  letter  from  my  Aunt  Jessica  enclosing  a  card  for  a 
fancy  dress  ball  at  the  Empress  Rooms.  The  preposter- 
ous lady! 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     101 

"  Do  come.  It  is  not  right  for  a  young  man  to  lead  the 
fife  of  a  recluse  of  seventy.  Here  we  are  in  the  height  of 
the  London  season,  and  I  am  sure  you  haven't  been  into 
ten  houses,  when  a  hundred  of  the  very  best  are  open  to 
you — "  I  loathe  the  term  "best  houses."  The  tinsel  in- 
eptitude of  them !  For  entertainment  I  really  would  sooner 
attend  a  mothers'  meeting  or  listen  to  the  serious  British 
Drama — Have  I  read  so  and  so's  novel?  Am  I  going  to 
Mrs.  Chose's  dance  ?  Do  I  ride  in  the  Park  ?  Do  I  know 
young  Thingummy  of  the  Guards,  who  is  going  to  marry 
Lady  Betty  Something  ?  What  do  I  think  of  the  Academy  ? 
As  if  one  could  have  any  sentiment  with  regard  to  the 
Academy  save  regret  at  such  profusion  of  fresh  paint! 
"You  want  shaking  up,"  continued  my  aunt.  Silly 
woman!  If  there  is  a  thing  I  should  abhor  it  would  be  to 
be  shaken  up.  "  Come  and  dine  with  us  at  seven- thirty  in 
costume,  and  I'll  promise  you  a  delightful  time.  And 
think  how  proud  the  girls  would  be  of  showing  off  their 
beau  cousin."  Et  patiti  et  patita.  I  am  again  reminded 
that  I  owe  it  to  my  position,  my  title.  God  ha'  mercy  on 
us !  To  bedeck  myself  like  a  decayed  mummer  in  a  booth 
and  frisk  about  in  a  pestilential  atmosphere  with  a  crowd 
of  strange  and  uninteresting  young  females  is  the  correct 
way  of  fulfilling  the  obligations  that  the  sovereign  laid 
upon  the  successors  to  the  title,  when  he  conferred  the  dig- 
nity of  a  baronetcy  on  my  great-grandfather !  Now  I  come 
to  think  of  it  the  Prince  Regent  was  that  sovereign,  and  my 
ancestor  did  things  for  him  at  Brighton.  Perhaps  after  all 
there  is  a  savage  irony  of  truth  in  Aunt  Jessica's  suggestion! 

And  a  beau  cousin  should  I  be  indeed.  What  does  she 
think  I  would  go  as  ?  A  mousquetaire  ?  or  a  troubadour 
in  blue  satin  trunks  and  cloak,  white  silk  tights  and  shoes 
and  a  Grecian  helmet,  like  Mr.  Snodgrass  at  Mrs.  Leo 
Hunter's  fete  champetre? 


IO2    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

I  wish  I  could  fathom  Aunt  Jessica's  reasons  for  her 
attempts  at  involving  me  in  her  social  mountebankery.  If 
the  girls  get  no  better  dance-partners  than  me,  heaven 
help  them! 

Only  a  fortnight  ago  I  drove  with  them  to  Hurlmgham. 
My  aunt  and  Gwendolen  disappeared  in  an  unaccountable 
manner  with  another  man,  leaving  me  under  an  umbrella 
tent  to  take  charge  of  Dora.  I  had  an  hour  and  a  half  of 
undiluted  Dora.  The  dose  was  too  strong,  and  it  made  my 
head  ache.  I  think  I  prefer  neat  Carlotta. 


CHAPTER  IX 
July  $th. 

I  lunched  at  home,  and  read  drowsily  before  the  open 
window  till  four  o'clock.  Then  the  splendour  of  the  day 
invited  me  forth.  Whither  should  I  go  ?  I  thought  of  Ju- 
dith and  Hampstead  Heath;  I  also  thought  of  Carlotta 
and  Hyde  Park.  The  sound  of  the  lions  roaring  for  their 
afternoon  tea  reached  me  through  the  still  air,  and  I  put 
from  me  a  strong  temptation  to  wander  alone  and  med- 
itative in  the  Zoological  Gardens  close  by.  I  must  not 
forget,  I  reflected,  that  I  am  responsible  for  Carlotta's  edu- 
cation, whereas  I  am  in  no  wise  responsible  for  the  ani- 
mals or  for  Judith.  If  Judith  and  I  had  claims  one  on  the 
other,  the  entire  charm  of  our  relationship  would  be 
broken. 

I  resolved  to  take  Carlotta  to  the  park,  in  order  to  im- 
prove her  mind.  She  would  see  how  well-bred  English- 
women comport  themselves  externally.  It  would  be  a 
lesson  in  decorum. 

I  do  not  despise  convention.  Indeed,  I  follow  it  up  to 
the  point  when  it  puts  on  the  airs  of  revealed  religion.  My 
neighbours  and  I  decide  on  a  certain  code  of  manners 
which  will  enable  us  to  meet  without  mutual  offence.  I 
agree  to  put  my  handkerchief  up  to  my  nose  when  I  sneeze 
in  his  presence,  and  he  contracts  not  to  wipe  muddy  boots 
on  my  sofa.  I  undertake  not  to  shock  his  wife  by  parad- 
ing my  hideous  immorality  before  her  eyes,  and  he  binds 
himself  not  to  aggravate  my  celibacy  by  beating  her  or 
kissing  her  when  I  am  paying  a  call.  J  agree,  by  wearing 

103 


IO4    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

an  arbitrarily  fixed  costume  when  I  dine  with  him,  to  brand 
myself  with  the  stamp  of  a  certain  class  of  society,  so  that 
his  guests  shall  receive  me  without  question,  and  he  in  re- 
turn gives  me  a  well-ordered  dinner  served  with  the  mini- 
mum amount  of  inconvenience  to  myself  that  his  circum- 
stances allow.  Many  folks  make  what  they  are  pleased  to 
call  unconventionally  a  mere  cloak  for  selfish  disregard  of 
the  feelings  and  tastes  of  others.  Bohemianism  too  often 
means  piggish  sloth  or  slatternly  ineptitude. 

Convention  is  solely  a  matter  of  manners.  That  is  why 
I  desire  to  instil  some  convention  into  what,  for  want  of  a 
more  accurate  term,  I  may  allude  to  as  Carlotta's  mind. 
It  will  save  me  much  trouble  in  the  future. 

I  summoned  Carlotta. 

"Carlotta,"  I  said,  "I  am  going  to  take  you  to  Hyde 
Park  and  show  you  the  English  aristocracy  wearing  their 
best  clothes  and  their  best  behaviour.  You  must  do  the 
same." 

"My  best  clothes?"  cried  Carlotta,  her  face  lighting  up. 

"  Your  very  best.    Make  haste." 

I  smiled.  She  ran  from  the  room  and  in  an  incredibly 
short  time  reappeared  unblushingly  bare-necked  and  bare- 
armed  in  the  evening  dress  that  had  caused  her  such  dis- 
may on  Saturday. 

I  jumped  to  my  feet.  There  is  no  denying  that  she 
looked  amazingly  beautiful.  She  looked,  in  fact,  discon- 
certingly beautiful.  I  found  it  hard  to  tell  her  to  take  the 
dress  off  again. 

"Is  it  wrong?"  she  asked  with  a  pucker  of  her  baby 
lips. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  I.    "People  would  be  shocked." 

"But  on  Saturday  evening — "  she  began. 

"I  know,  my  child,"  I  interrupted.  "In  society  you  are 
scarcely  respectable  unless  you  go  about  half  naked  at 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     105 

night;  but  to  do  so  in  the  daytime  would  be  the  grossest 
indecency.  I'll  explain  some  other  time." 

"I  shall  never  understand,"  said  Carlotta. 

Two  great  tears  stood,  one  on  each  eyelid,  and  fel? 
simultaneously  down  her  cheeks. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  crying  for?"  I  asked  aghast. 

"You  are  not  pleased  with  me,"  said  Carlotta,  with  a 
choke  in  her  voice. 

The  two  tears  fell  like  rain-drops  on  to  her  bosom,  and 
she  stood  before  me  a  picture  of  exquisite  woe.  Then  I 
did  a  very  foolish  thing. 

Last  week  a  little  gold  brooch  in  a  jeweller's  window 
caught  my  fancy.  I  bought  it  with  the  idea  of  presenting 
it  to  Carlotta;  when  an  occasion  offered,  as  a  reward  for 
peculiar  merit.  Now,  however,  to  show  her  that  I  was  in 
no  way  angry,  I  abstracted  the  bauble  from  the  drawer  of 
my  writing-table,  and  put  it  in  her  hand. 

"You  please  me  so  much,  Carlotta,"  said  I,  "that  I 
have  bought  this  for  you." 

Before  I  had  completed  the  sentence,  and  before  I  knew 
what  she  was  after,  her  arms  were  round  my  neck  and  she 
was  hugging  me  like  a  child. 

I  have  never  experienced  such  an  odd  sensation  in  my 
life  as  the  touch  of  Carlotta's  fresh  young  arms  upon  my 
face  and  the  perfume  of  spring  violets  that  emanated  from 
her  person.  I  released  myself  swif tly  from  her  indecorous 
demonstration. 

"You  mustn't  do  things  like  that,"  said  I,  severely. 
"In  England,  young  women  are  only  allowed  to  embrace 
their  grandfathers." 

Carlotta  looked  at  m«  wide-eyed,  with  the  fox-terrier 
knitting  of  the  forehead. 

"But  you  are  so  good  to  me,  Seer  Marcous,"  she  said. 

"I  hope  you'll  find  many  people  good  to  you,  Carlotta," 


106     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

I  answered.    "  But  if  you  continue  that  method  of  expressing 
your  appreciation,  you  may  possibly  be  misunderstood." 

I  had  recovered  from  the  momentary  shock  to  my  senses, 
and  I  laughed.  She  fluttered  a  sidelong  glance  at  me,  and 
a  smile  as  inscrutable  as  the  Monna  Lisa's  hovered  over  her 
lips. 

'•'What  would  they  do  if  they  did  not  understand?" 

"They  would  take  you,"  I  replied,  fixing  her  sternly 
with  my  gaze,  "they  would  take  you  for  an  unconscion- 
able baggage." 

"Houl"  laughed  Carlotta,  suddenly.  And  she  ran  from 
the  room. 

In  a  moment  she  was  back  again.  She  came  up  to  me 
demurely  and  plucked  my  sleeve. 

"  Come  and  show  me  what  I  must  put  on  so  as  to  please 
you." 

I  rang  the  bell  for  Antoinette,  to  whom  I  gave  the  neces- 
sary instructions.  Her  next  request  would  be  that  I  should 
act  the  part  of  lady's-maid.  I  must  maintain  my  dignity 
with  Carlotta. 

The  lovely  afternoon  had  attracted  many  people  to  the 
park,  and  the  lawns  were  thronged.  We  found  a  couple 
of  chairs  at  the  edge  of  one  of  the  cross-paths  and  watched 
the  elegant  assembly.  Carlotta,  vastly  entertained,  asked 
innumerable  questions.  How  could  I  tell  whether  a  lady 
was  married  or  unmarried?  Did  they  all  wear  stays? 
Why  did  every  one  look  so  happy  ?  Did  I  think  that  old 
man  was  the  young  girl's  husband?  What  were  they  all 
talking  about  ?  Wouldn't  I  take  her  for  a  drive  in  one  of 
those  beautiful  carriages  ?  Why  hadn't  I  a  carriage  ?  Then 
suddenly,  as  if  inspired,  after  a  few  minutes'  silent  reflec- 
tion: 

"Seer  Marcous,  is  this  the  marriage  market?" 

"The  what?"  I  gasped. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      107 

"The  marriage  market.  I  read  it  in  a  book,  yesterday. 
Miss  Griggs  gave  it  me  to  read  aloud — Tack — Thack — " 

"Thackeray?" 

"Ye-es.  They  come  here  to  sell  the  young  girls  to  men 
who  want  wives."  She  edged  away  from  me,  with  a  little 
movement  of  alarm.  "  That  is  not  why  you  have  brought 
me  here — to  sell  me  ?  " 

"How  much  do  you  think  you  would  be  worth?"  I 
asked,  sarcastically. 

She  opened  out  her  hands  palms  upward,  throwing 
down  her  parasol,  as  she  did  so,  upon  her  neighbour's 
little  Belgian  griffon,  who  yelped. 

"Uh,  lots,"  she  said  in  her  frank  way.  "I  am  very 
beautiful." 

I  picked  up  the  parasol,  bowed  apologetically  to  the 
owner  of  the  stricken  animal,  and  addressed  Carlotta. 

"Listen,  my  good  child.  You  are  passably  good-look- 
ing, but  you  are  by  no  means  very  beautiful.  If  I  tried  to 
sell  you  here,  you  might  possibly  fetch  half  a  crown — " 

'Two  shillings  and  sixpence?"  asked  the  literal  Car- 
lotta. 

"  Yes.  Just  that.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact,  no  one  would 
buy  you.  This  is  not  the  marriage  market.  There  is  no 
such  thing  as  a  marriage  market.  English  mothers  and 
fathers  do  not  sell  their  daughters  for  money.  Such  a  thing 
is  monstrous  and  impossible." 

"Then  it  was  all  lies  I  read  in  the  book?" 

"All  lies,"  said  I. 

I  hope  the  genial  shade  of  the  great  satirist  has  forgiven 
me. 

"Why  do  they  put  lies  in  books?" 

"To  accentuate  the  Truth,  so  that  it  shall  prevail,"  I 
answered. 

This  was  too  hard  a  nut  for  Carlotta  to  crack.    She  was 


io8     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

silent  for  a  moment.  She  reverted,  ruefully,  to  the  intelli- 
gible. 

"I  thought  I  was  beautiful,"  she  said. 

"Who  told  you  so?" 

"Pasquale." 

"Pasquale  has  no  sense,"  said  I.  "There  are  men  to 
whom  all  women  who  are  not  seventy  and  toothless  and 
rheumy  at  the  eyes  are  beautiful.  Pasquale  has  said  the 
same  to  every  woman  he  has  met.  He  is  a  Lothario  and 
a  Don  Juan  and  a  Caligula  and  a  Faublas  and  a  Casanova." 

"And  he  tells  lies,  too?" 

"Millions  of  them,"  said  I.  "He  contracts  with  their 
father  Beelzebub  for  a  hundred  gross  a  day." 

"  Pasquale  is  very  pretty  and  he  makes  me  laugh  and  I 
like  him,"  said  Carlotta. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it,"  said  I. 

The  griffon,  who  had  been  sniffing  at  Carlotta's  skirts, 
suddenly  leaped  into  her  lap.  With  a  swift  movement  of 
her  hand  she  swept  the  poor  little  creature,  as  if  it  had 
been  a  noxious  insect,  yards  away. 

"Carlotta!"  I  cried  angrily,  springing  to  my  feet. 

The  ladies  who  owned  the  beast  rushed  to  their  whin- 
ing pet  and  looked  astonished  daggers  at  Carlotta.  When 
they  picked  it  up,  it  sat  dangling  a  piteous  paw.  Carlotta 
rose,  merely  scared  at  my  anger.  I  raised  my  hat. 

"I  am  more  than  sorry.  I  can't  tell  you  how  sorry  I 
am.  I  hope  the  little  dog  is  not  hurt.  My  ward,  for  whom 
I  offer  a  thousand  apologies,  is  a  Mohammedan,  to  whom 
all  dogs  are  unclean.  Please  attribute  the  accident  to  re- 
ligious instinct." 

The  younger  of  the  two,  who  had  been  examining  the 
paw,  looked  up  with  a  smile. 

"Your  ward  is  forgiven.  Punch  oughtn't  to  jump  on 
strange  ladies'  laps,  whether  they  are  Mohammedans  or 


The  Morals  of"  Marcus  Ordeyne     1 09 

not.  Oh!  he  is  more  frightened  than  hurt.  And  I,"  she 
added,  with  a  twinkling  eye,  "am  more  hurt  than  fright- 
ened, because  Sir  Marcus  Ordeyne  doesn't  recognise  me." 

So  Carlotta  had  nearly  killed  the  dog  of  an  unrecalled 
acquaintance. 

"I  do  indeed  recognise  you  now,"  said  I,  mendaciously. 
I  seem  to  have  been  lying  to-day  through  thick  and  thin. 
"But  in  the  confusion  of  the  disaster — " 

"  You  sat  next  me  at  lunch  one  day  last  winter,  at  Mrs. 
Ordeyne's,"  interrupted  the  lady,  "and  you  talked  to  me 
of  transcendental  mathematics." 

I  remembered.  "The  crime,"  said  I,  "has  lain  heavily 
on  my  conscience." 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  she  laughed,  dismissing 
me  with  a  bow.  I  raised  my  hat  and  joined  Carlotta. 

It  was  a  Miss  Gascoigne,  a  flirtatious  intimate  of  Aunt 
Jessica's  house.  To  this  irresponsible  young  woman  I 
had  openly  avowed  that  I  was  the  guardian  of  a  beautiful 
Mohammedan  whose  religious  instinct  compelled  her  to 
destroy  little  dogs.  I  shall  hear  of  this  from  my  Aunt 
Jessica. 

I  walked  stonily  away  with  Carlotta. 

"You  are  cross  with  me,"  she  whimpered. 

"Yes,  I  am.  You  might  have  killed  the  poor  little 
beast.  It  was  very  wicked  and  cruel  of  you." 

Carlotta  burst  out  crying  in  the  midst  of  the  promenade. 

The  tears  did  not  romantically  come  into  her  eyes  as 
they  had  done  an  hour  before;  but  she  wept  copiously, 
after  the  unrestrained  manner  of  children,  and  used  her 
pocket-handkerchief.  From  their  seats  women  put  up 
their  lorgnons  to  look  at  her,  passers-by  turned  round  and 
stared.  The  whole  of  the  gaily  dressed  throng  seemed  to 
be  one  amused  gaze.  In  a  moment  or  two  I  became  con- 
scious that  reprehensory  glances  were  being  directed  tow- 


no    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

ards  myself,  calling  me,  as  plain  as  eyes  could  call  an  ill- 
conditioned  brute,  for  making  the  poor  young  creature, 
who  was  at  my  mercy,  thus  break  down  in  public.  It  was 
a  charming  situation  for  an  even-tempered  philosopher. 
We  walked  stolidly  on,  I  glaring  in  front  of  me  and  Cariotta 
weeping.  The  malice  of  things  arranged  that  no  neigh- 
bouring chair  should  be  vacant,  and  that  the  path  should 
be  unusually  crowded.  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  o\- "hear- 
ing a  young  fellow  say  to  a  girl: 

"He?  That's  Ordeyne — came  into  the  baronetcy — 
mad  as  a  dingo  dog." 

I  was  giving  myself  a  fine  advertisement. 

"For  heaven's  sake  stop  crying,"  I  said.  Then  a  mem- 
ory of  far-off  childhood  flashed  its  inspiration  upon  me. 
"If  you  don't,"  I  added,  grimly,  "I'll  take  you  out  and 
give  you  to  a  policeman." 

The  effect  was  magical.  She  turned  on  me  a  scared 
look,  gasped,  pulled  down  her  veil,  which  she  had  raised 
so  as  to  dab  her  eyes  with  her  pocket-handkerchief,  and 
incontinently  checked  the  fountain  of  her  tears. 

"A  policeman?" 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "a  great,  big,  ugly  blue  policeman,  who 
shuts  up  people  who  misbehave  themselves  in  prison,  and 
takes  off  their  clothes,  and  shaves  their  heads,  and  feeds 
them  on  bread  and  water." 

"I  won't  cry  any  more,"  she  said,  swallowing  a  sob. 
"Is  it  also  wicked  to  cry?" 

"Any  of  these  ladies  here  would  sooner  be  burned  alive 
with  dyspepsia  or  cut  in  two  with  tight-lacing,"  I  replied 
severely.  "Let  us  sit  down." 

We  stepped  over  the  low  iron  rail,  and  passing  through 
the  first  two  rows  of  people,  found  seats  behind  where  the 
crowd  was  thinner. 

"Is  Seer  Marcous  still  angry  with  me?"  asked  Car< 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      1 1 1 

lotta,  and  the  simple  plaintiveness  of  her  voice  would  have 
melted  the  bust  of  Nero.  I  lectured  her  on  cruelty  to  ani- 
mals. That  one  had  duties  of  kindness  towards  the  lower 
creation  appealed  to  her  as  a  totally  new  idea.  Supposing 
the  dog  had  broken  all  its  legs  and  ribs,  would  she  not  have 
been  sorry  ?  She  answered  frankly  in  the  negative.  It  was 
a  nasty  little  dog.  If  she  had  hurt  it  badly,  so  much  the 
better.  What  did  it  matter  if  a  dog  was  hurt?  She  was 
sorry  now  she  had  hurled  it  into  space,  because  it  belonged 
to  my  friends,  and  that  had  made  me  cross  with  her. 

Of  coarse  I  was  shocked  at  the  thoughtless  cruelty  of 
the  action ;  but  my  anger  had  also  its  roots  in  dismay  at  the 
public  scandal  it  might  have  caused,  and  in  the  discovery 
that  I  was  known  to  the  victim's  owner.  It  is  the  sad  fate 
of  the  instructors  of  youth  that  they  must  hypocritically 
credit  themselves  with  only  the  sublimest  of  motives.  I 
spoke  to  Carlotta  like  the  good  father  in  the  "  Swiss  Fam- 
ily Robinson."  I  gave  vent  to  such  noble  sentiments  that 
in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  glowed  with  pride  in  my  bor- 
rowed plumes  of  virtue.  I  would  have  taken  a  slug  to  my 
bosom  and  addressed  a  rattlesnake  as  Uncle  Toby  did  the 
fly.  I  wonder  whether  it  is  not  through  some  such  process 
as  this  that  parsons  manage  to  keep  themselves  good. 

The  soothing  warmth  of  conscious  merit  restored  me  to 
good  temper;  and  when  Carlotta  slid  her  hand  into  mine 
and  asked  me  if  I  had  forgiven  her,  I  magnanimously 
assured  her  that  all  the  past  was  forgotten. 

"Only,"  said  I,  "you  will  have  to  get  out  of  this  habit 
of  tears.  A  wise  man  called  Burton  says  in  his  'Anatomy 
of  Melancholy,'  a  beautiful  book  which  I'll  give  you  to 
read  when  you  are  sixty,  'As  much  count  may  be  taken  of 
a  woman  weeping  as  a  goose  going  barefoot.' " 

"He  was  a  nasty  old  man,"  said  Carlotta.  "Women 
cry  because  they  feel  very  unhappy.  Men  are  never  un- 


H2     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

happy,  and  that  is  the  reason  that  men  don't  cry.  My 
mamma  used  to  cry  all  the  time  at  Alexandretta;  but 
Hamdi! — "  she  broke  into  an  adorable  trill  of  a  chuckle, 
"You  would  as  soon  see  a  goose  going  with  boots  and 
stockings,  like  the  Puss  in  the  shoes — the  fairy  tale — as 
Hamdi  crying.  Hou!" 

Half  an  hour  later,  as  we  were  driving  homewards,  she 
broke  a  rather  long  silence  which  she  had  evidently  been 
employing  in  meditation. 

"  Seer  Marcous." 

"Yes?" 

She  has  a  child's  engaging  way  of  rubbing  herself  up 
against  one  when  she  wants  to  be  particularly  ingratiating. 

"It  was  so  nice  to  dine  with  you  on  Saturday." 

"Really?" 

"  Oh,  ye-es.  When  are  you  going  to  let  me  dine  with 
you  again,  to  show  me  you  have  forgiven  me?" 

A  hansom  cab  offers  peculiar  facilities  for  the  aforesaid 
process  of  ingratiation. 

"You  shall  dine  with  me  this  evening,"  said  I,  and  Car- 
lotta  cooed  with  pleasure. 

I  perceive  that  she  is  gradually  growing  westernised. 

July  8th. 

In  obedience  to  a  peremptory  note  from  Judith,  I  took 
Carlotta  this  afternoon  to  Tottenham  Mansions.  I  shook 
hands  with  my  hostess,  turned  round  and  said: 

"This,  my  dear  Judith,  is  Carlotta." 

"I  am  very  pleased  to  see  you,"  said  Judith. 

"  So  am  I,"  replied  Carlotta,  not  to  be  outdone  in  po- 
liteness. 

She  sat  bolt  upright,  most  correctly,  on  the  edge  of  a 
chair,  and  responded  moncsyllabically  to  Judith's  ques- 
tions. Her  demeanour  could  not  have  been  more  impec- 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      113 

cable  had  she  been  trained  in  a  French  convent.  Just 
before  we  arrived,  she  had  been  laughing  immoderately 
because  I  had  ordered  her  to  spit  out  a  mass  of  horrible 
sweetmeat  which  she  had  found  it  impossible  to  masti- 
cate, and  she  had  challenged  me  to  extract  it  with  my  fin- 
gers. But  now,  compared  with  her,  Saint  Nitouche  was  a 
Maenad.  I  was  entertained  by  Judith's  fruitless  efforts  to 
get  behind  this  wall  of  reserve.  Carlotta  said, "  Oh,  ye-es" 
or  "No-o"  to  everything.  It  was  not  a  momentous  con- 
versation. As  it  was  Carlotta  in  whom  Judith  was  par- 
ticularly interested,  I  effaced  myself.  At  last,  after  a  lull 
in  the  spasmodic  talk,  Carlotta  said,  very  politely: 

"Mrs.  Mainwaring  has  a  beautiful  house." 

"It's  only  a  tiny  flat.  Would  you  like  to  look  over  it?" 
asked  Judith,  eagerly,  flashing  me  a  glance  that  plainly 
said,  "Now  that  I  shall  have  her  to  myself,  you  may 
trust  me  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  her." 

"I  would  like  it  very  much,"  said  Carlotta,  rising. 

I  held  the  door  open  for  them  to  pass  out,  and  lit  a  cig- 
arette. When  they  returned  ten  minutes  afterwards,  Car- 
lotta was  smiling  and  self-possessed,  evidently  very  well 
pleased  with  herself,  but  Judith  had  a  red  spot  on  each  of 
her  cheeks. 

The  sight  of  her  smote  me  with  an  odd  new  feeling  of 
pity.  I  cannot  dismiss  the  vision  from  my  mind.  All  the 
evening  I  have  seen  the  two  women  standing  side  by  side, 
a  piteous  parable.  The  light  from  the  window  shone  full 
upon  them,  and  the  dark  curtain  of  the  door  was  an  effec- 
tive background.  The  one  flaunted  the  sweet  insolence  of 
youth,  health,  colour,  beauty;  of  the  bud  just  burst  into 
full  flower.  The  other  wore  the  stamp  of  care,  of  the 
much  knowledge  wherein  is  much  sorrow,  and  in  her  eyes 
dwelled  the  ghosts  of  dead  years.  She  herself  looked  like 
a  ghost — dressed  in  white  pique*,  which  of  itself  drew  the 
8 


114    The  Morals  of"  Marcus  Ordeyne 

colour  from  hw  white  face  and  pale  lips  and  mass  of  faim 
straw-coloured  hair,  the  pallor  of  all  which  was  accentu- 
ated by  the  red  spots  on  her  cheeks  and  her  violet  eyes. 

I  saw  that  something  had  occurred  to  vex  her. 

"Before  we  go,"  I  said,  "I  should  like  a  word  with  you. 
Carlotta  will  not  mind." 

W,e  went  into  the  dining-room.  I  took  her  hand  which 
was  cold,  in  spite  of  the  July  warmth. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  I.  "What  do  you  think  of  my 
young  savage  from  Asia  Minor?" 

Judith  laughed — I  am  sure  not  naturally. 

"Is  that  all  you  wanted  to  say  to  me?" 

She  withdrew  her  hand,  and  tidied  her  hair  in  the  mir- 
ror of  the  over-mantel. 

"I  think  she  is  a  most  uninteresting  young  woman.  I 
am  disappointed.  I  had  anticipated  something  original.  I 
had  looked  forward  to  some  amusement.  But,  really,  my 
dear  Marcus,  she  is  bete  a  pleurer — weepingly  stupid." 

"  She  certainly  can  weep,"  said  I. 

"Oh,  can  she?"  said  Judith,  as  if  the  announcement 
threw  some  light  on  Carlotta's  character.  "And  when 
she  cries,  I  suppose  you,  like  a  man,  give  in  and  let  her 
have  her  own  way?"  And  Judith  laughed  again. 

"My  dear  Judith,"  said  I,  "you  have  no  idea  of  the 
wholesome  discipline  at  Lingfield  Terrace." 

Suddenly  with  one  of  her  disconcerting  changes  of 
front,  she  turned  and  caught  me  by  the  coat-lappels. 

"  Marcus  dear,  I  have  been  so  lonely  this  week.  When 
are  you  coming  to  see  me?" 

"We'll  have  a  whole  day  out  on  Sunday,"  said  I. 

As  I  walked  down  the  stairs  with  Carlotta,  I  reflected 
that  Judith  had  not  accounted  for  the  red  spots. 

"I  like  her,"  said  Carlotta.    " She  is  a  nice  old  lady." 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      1 1 5 

"Old  lady!  What  on  earth  do  you  mean ?"  I  was  in- 
deed startled.  "  She  is  a  young  woman." 

"  Pouf ! "  cried  Carlotta.    "  She  is  forty." 

"She  is  no  such  thing,"  I  cried.  "She  is  years  younger 
than  I." 

"  She  would  not  tell  me." 

"You  asked  her  age?" 

"  Oh,  ye-es,"  said  Carlotta.  "  I  was  very  polite.  I  first 
asked  if  she  was  married.  She  said  yes.  Then  I  asked 
how  her  husband  was.  She  said  she  didn't  know.  That 
was  funny.  Why  does  she  not  know,  Seer  Marcous?" 

"Never  mind,"  said  I,  "go  on  telling  me  how  polite  you 
were." 

"  I  asked  how  many  children  she  had.  She  said  she  had 
none.  I  saicTft  was  a  pity.  And  then  I  said, '  I  am  eighteen 
years  old  and  I  want  to  marry  quite  soon  and  have  chil- 
dren. How  old  are  you  ? '  And  she  would  not  tell  me.  I 
said,  '  You  must  be  the  same  age  as  my  mamma,  if  she 
were  alive.'  I  said  other  things,  about  her  husband,  which 
I  forget.  Oh,  I  was  very  polite." 

She  smiled  up  at  me  in  quest  of  approbation.  I  checked 
a  horrified  rebuke  when  I  reflected  that,  according  to  the 
etiquette  of  the  harem,  she  had  been  "very  polite."  But 
my  poor  Judith!  Every  artless  question  had  been  a  knife 
thrust  in  a  sensitive  spot.  Her  husband:  the  handsome 
blackguard  who  had  lured  her  into  the  divorce  court, 
married  her,  and  after  two  unhappy  years  had  left  her 
broken;  children:  they  would  have  kept  her  life  sweet, 
and  did  I  not  know  how  she  had  yearned  for  them  ?  Her 
age :  it  is  only  the  very  happily  married  woman  who  snaps 
her  fingers  at  the  approach  of  forty,  and  even  she  does  so 
with  a  disquieting  sense  of  bravado.  And  the  sweet  inso- 
lence of  youth  says:  "I  am  eighteen:  how  old  are  you?" 

My  poor  Judith!    Once  more,  on  our  walk  home,  I  dis- 


1 1 6    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

coursed  to  Carlotta  on  the  differences  between  East  and 
West. 

"  Seer  Marcous,"  said  Carlotta  this  evening  at  dinner — 
I  have  decided  now  that  she  shall  dine  regularly  with  me; 
it  is  undoubtedly  agreeable  to  see  her  pretty  face  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  table  and  listen  to  her  irresponsible 
chatter:  chatter  which  I  keep  within  the  bounds  of  deco- 
rum when  Stenson  is  present,  so  as  to  save  his  susceptibil- 
ities, by  the  simple  device,  agreed  upon  between  us  (to  her 
great  delight)  of  scratching  the  side  of  my  somewhat  prom- 
inent nose — "  Seer  Marcous,  why  does  Mrs.  Mainwaring 
keep  your  picture  in  her  bedroom  ?  " 

I  am  glad  Stenson  happened  to  be  out  of  the  room.  His 
absence  saved  the  flaying  of  my  nasal  organ.  I  explained 
that  it  was  the  custom  in  England  for  ladies  to  collect  the 
photographs  of  their  men  friends,  and  use  them  misguid- 
edly  for  purposes  of  decoration. 

"But  this,"  said  Carlotta,  opening  out  her  arms  in  an 
exaggerated  way,  "  is  such  a  big  one." 

"Ah,  that,"  I  answered,  "is  because  I  am  very  beau- 
tiful." 

Carlotta  shrieked  with  laughter.  The  exquisite  comi« 
cality  of  the  jest  occasioned  bubbling  comments  of  mirth 
during  the  rest  of  the  meal,  and  her  original  indiscreet 
question  was  happily  forgotten. 


CHAPTER  X 
loth  July. 

Judith  and  I  have  had  our  day  in  the  country.  We 
know  a  wayside  station,  on  a  certain  line  of  railway,  about 
an  hour  and  a  half  from  town,  where  we  can  alight,  find 
eggs  and  bacon  at  the  village  inn  and  hayricks  in  a  soli- 
tary meadow,  and  where  we  can  chew  the  cud  of  these  de- 
lights with  the  cattle  in  well- wooded  pastures.  Judith  has 
a  passion  for  eggs  and  bacon  and  hayricks.  My  own 
rapture  in  their  presence  is  tempered  by  the  philosophic 
calm  of  my  disposition. 

She  wore  a  cotton  dress  of  a  forget-me-not  blue  which 
suits  her  pale  colouring.  She  looked  quite  pretty.  When 
I  told  her  so  she  blushed  like  a  girl.  I  was  glad  to  see  her 
in  gay  humour  again.  Of  late  months  she  has  been  sub- 
ject to  moodiness,  emotional  variability,  which  has  some- 
what ruffled  the  smooth  surface  of  our  companionship. 
But  to-day  there  has  been  no  trace  of  "temperament." 
She  has  shown  herself  the  pleasant,  witty  Judith  she  knows 
I  like  her  to  be,  with  a  touch  of  coquetry  thrown  in  on  her 
own  account.  She  even  spoke  amiably  of  Carlotta.  I 
have  not  had  so  thoroughly  enjoyable  a  aay  with  Judith 
for  a  long  time. 

I  don't  think  she  set  herself  deliberately  to  please  me. 
That  I  should  resent.  I  know  that  women  in  order  to 
please  an  unsuspecting  male  will  walk  weary  miles  by  his 
side  with  blisters  on  their  feet  and  a  beatific  smile  on 
their  faces.  But  Judith  has  far  too  much  common- 
sense. 

Another  pleasing  feature  of  the  day's  jaunt  has  been  the 

1 17 


1 1 8     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

absence  of  the  appeal  to  sentimentality  which  Judith  of 
late,  especially  since  her  return  from  Paris,  has  been  over- 
fond  of  making.  This  idle  habit  of  mind,  for  such  it  is  in 
reality,  has  been  arrested  by  an  intellectual  interest.  One 
of  her  great  friends  is  Willoughby,  the  economic  statisti- 
cian, who  in  his  humorous  moments,  writes  articles  for 
popular  magazines,  illustrated  by  scale  diagrams.  He  will 
draw,  for  instance,  a  series  of  men  representing  the  na- 
tions of  the  world,  and  varying  in  bulk  and  stature  accord- 
ing to  the  respective  populations;  and  over  against  these 
he  will  set  a  series  of  pigs  whose  sizes  are  proportionate  to 
the  amount  of  pork  per  head  eaten  by  the  different  nation- 
alities. To  these  queer  minds  that  live  on  facts  (I  myself 
could  as  easily  thrive  on  a  diet  of  egg-shells)  this  sort  of 
pictorial  information  is  peculiarly  fascinating.  But  Ju- 
dith, who  like  most  women  has  a  freakish  mental  as  well 
as  physical  digestion,  delights  in  knowing  how  many 
hogs  a  cabinet  minister  will  eat  during  a  lifetime,  and 
how  much  of  the  earth's  surface  could  be  scoured  by  the 
world's  yearly  output  of  scrubbing-brushes.  I  don't  blame 
her  for  it  any  more  than  I  blame  her  for  a  love  of  rad- 
ishes, which  make  me  ill;  it  is  not  as  if  she  had  no  whole- 
some tastes.  On  the  contrary,  I  commend  her.  Now, 
Willoughby,  it  seems,  has  found  the  public  appetite  so 
great  for  these  thought-saving  boluses  of  knowledge — un- 
pleasant drags,  as  it  were,  put  up  into  gelatine  capsules — 
that  he  needs  assistance.  He  has  asked  Judith  to  devil  for 
him,  and  I  have  to-day  persuaded  her  to  accept  his  offer. 
It  will  be  an  excellent  thing  for  the  dear  woman.  It  will 
be  an  absorbing  occupation.  It  will  divert  the  current  of 
her  thoughts  from  the  sentimentality  that  I  deprecate,  and 
provided  she  does  not  serve  up  hard-boiled  facts  to  me  at 
dinner,  she  will  be  the  pleasanter  companion. 
The  only  return  to  it  was  when  I  kissed  her  at  parting. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     1 1  g 

"That  is  the  first,  Marcus,  for  twelve  hours,"  she  said; 
very  sweetly,  it  is  true — but  still  reproachfully. 

But  Sacred  Name  of  a  Little  Good  Man!  (as  the  de- 
praved French  people  say),  what  is  the  use  of  this  contin- 
uous osculation  between  rational  beings  of  opposite  sexes 
who  set  out  to  enjoy  themselves  ?  If  only  St.  Paul,  in  the 
famous  passage  when  he  says  there  is  a  time  for  this  and  a 
time  for  that,  had  mentioned  kissing,  he  would  have  done 
a  great  deal  of  practical  good. 

July  iT,th. 

To-night,  for  the  first  time  since  I  came  into  the  family 
estates  (such  as  they  are),  I  feel  the  paralysis  of  aspiration 
occasioned  by  poverty.  If  I  were  very  rich,  I  would  buy 
the  two  next  houses,  pull  them  down  and  erect  on  the  site 
a  tower  forty  foot  high.  At  the  very  top  would  be  one  com- 
fortable room  to  be  reached  by  a  lift,  and  in  this  room  I 
could  have  my  being,  while  it  listed  me,  and  be  secure  from 
all  kinds  of  incursions  and  interruptions.  Antoinette's 
one-eyed  cat  could  not  scratch  for  admittance;  Antoinette 
herself  could  not  enter  under  pretext  of  domestic  econom- 
ics and  lure  me  into  profitless  gossip;  and  I  could  defy 
Carlotta,  who  is  growing  to  be  as  pervasive  as  the  smell  of 
pickles  over  Crosse  &  Blackwell's  factory.  She  comes  in 
without  knociang,  looks  at  picture-books,  sprawls  about 
doing  nothing,  smokes  my  best  cigarettes,  hums  tunes 
which  she  has  picked  up  from  barrel-organs,  bends  over 
me  to  see  what  I  am  writing,  munching  her  eternal  sweet- 
meats in  my  ear,  and  laughs  at  me  when  I  tell  her  she  has 
irremediably  broken  the  thread  of  my  ideas.  Of  course  I 
might  be  brutal  and  turn  her  out.  But  somehow  I  forget 
to  do  so,  until  I  realise — too  late — the  havoc  she  Has  made 
with  my  work. 

I   did,  however,   think,  when  Miss   Griggs  mounted 


I2O    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

guard  over  Carlotta,  and  Antoinette  and  her  cat  were 
busied  with  luncheon  cook-pans,  that  my  solitude  was  un- 
imperilled.  I  see  now  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  the  tower. 
And  I  cannot  build  the  tower;  so  I  am  to  be  hencefor- 
ward at  the  mercy  of  anything  feline  or  feminine  that 
cares  to  swish  its  tail  or  its  skirts  about  my  drawing- 
room. 

I  was  arranging  my  notes.  I  had  an  illuminating  inspi- 
ration concerning  the  life  of  Francois  Villon  and  the  con- 
temporary court  of  Cosmo  de'  Medici;  I  was  preparing  to 
fix  it  in  writing  when  the  door  opened  and  Stenson  an- 
nounced : 

"Mrs.  Ordeyne  and  Miss  Ordeyne." 

My  Aunt  Jessica  and  Dora  came  in  and  my  inspiration 
went  out.  It  hasn't  come  back  yet. 

My  aunt's  apologies  and  Dora's  draperies  filled  the 
room.  I  must  forgive  the  invasion.  They  knew  they  were 
disturbing  my  work.  They  hoped  I  didn't  mind. 

"I  wanted  mamma  to  write,  but  she  would  come,"  said 
Dora,  in  her  hearty  voice.  I  murmured  polite  mendac- 
ities and  offered  chairs.  Dora  preferred  to  stand  and 
gaze  about  her  with  feminine  curiosity.  Women  always 
seem  to  sniff  for  Bluebeardism  in  a  bachelor's  apart- 
ment. 

"Why,  what  two  beautiful  rooms  you  have.  And  the 
books!  There  isn't  an  inch  of  wall-space!" 

She  went  on  a  voyage  of  discovery  round  the  shelves 
while  my  aunt  explained  the  object  of  their  visit.  Some- 
body, I  forget  who,  had  lent  them  a  yacht.  They  were 
making  up  a  party  for  a  summer  cruise  in  Norwegian 
fiords.  The  Thingummies  and  the  So  and  So's  and  Lord 
This  and  Miss  That  had  promised  to  come,  but  they 
were  sadly  in  need  of  a  man  to  play  host — I  was  to  fancy 
three  lone  women  at  the  mercy  of  the  skipper.  I  did,  and 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      121 

I  didn't  envy  the  skipper.  What  more  natural,  gushed 
my  aunt,  than  that  they  should  turn  to  me,  the  head  of  the 
house,  in  their  difficulty  ? 

"I  am  afraid,  my  dear  aunt,"  said  I,  "that  my  acquaint- 
ance with  skipper-terrorising  hosts  is  nil.  I  can't  sug- 
gest any  one." 

"But  who  asked  you  to  suggest  any  one?"  she  laughed. 
"It  is  you  yourself  that  we  want  to  persuade  to  have  pity 
on  us." 

"I  have — much  pity,"  said  I,  "for  if  it's  rough,  you'll  all 
be  horribly  sea-sick." 

Dora  ran  across  the  room  from  the  book-case  she  was 
inspecting. 

"I  would  like  to  shake  him!  He  is  only  pretending  he 
doesn't  understand.  I  don't  know  what  we  shall  do  if  you 
won't  come  with  us." 

"You  can't  refuse,  Marcus.  It  will  be  an  ideal  trip — 
and  such  a  comfortable  yacht — and  the  deep  blue  fiords — 
and  we've  got  a  French  chef.  You  will  be  doing  us  such  a 
favour." 

"Come,  say  'Yes,'"  said  Dora. 

I  wish  she  were  not  such  a  bouncing  Juno  of  a  girl. 
Large,  athletic  women  with  hearty  voices  are  difficult  for 
one  to  deal  with.  I  am  a  match  for  my  aunt,  whom  I  can 
obfuscate  with  words.  But  Dora  doesn't  understand  my 
satire;  she  gives  a  great,  healthy  laugh,  and  says,  "Oh, 
rot!"  which  scatters  my  intellectual  armoury. 

"It  is  exceedingly  kind  of  you  to  think  of  me,"  I  said  to 
my  aunt,  "and  the  proposal  is  tempting — the  prospect  is 
indeed  fascinating — but — " 

"But  what?" 

"  I  have  so  many  engagements,"  I  answered  feebly. 

My  Aunt  Jessica  rose,  smiling  indulgently  upon  me,  as 
if  I  were  a  spoilt  little  boy,  and  took  me  on  to  the  balcony, 


122    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

while  Dora  demurely  retired  to  the  bookshelves  in  the  far- 
ther room. 

"  Can't  you  manage  to  throw  them  aside  ?  Poor  Dora 
will  be  inconsolable." 

I  stared  at  her  for  a  moment  and  then  at  Dora's  broad 
back  and  sturdy  hips.  Inconsolable?  I  can't  make  out 
what  the  good  lady  is  driving  at.  If  she  were  a  vulgar 
woman  trying  to  squeeze  her  way  into  society  and  needed 
the  lubricant  of  the  family  baronetcy,  I  could  understand 
her  eagerness  to  parade  me  as  her  appanage.  But  titles  in 
her  drawing-room  are  as  common  as  tea-cups.  And  the 
inconsolability  of  Dora — 

"If  I  did  come  she  would  be  bored  to  death,"  said  I. 

"  She  is  willing  to  risk  it." 

"But  why  should  she  seek  martyrdom?" 

"There  is  another  reason,"  said  my  aunt,  ignoring  my 
pertinent  question,  but  glancing  at  me  reassuringly: 
"'there  is  another  reason  why  it  would  be  well  for  you  to 
come  on  this  cruise  with  us."  She  sank  her  voice.  "You 
met  Miss  Gascoigne  in  the  park  last  week — " 

"A  very  charming  and  kind  young  lady,"  said  I. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  been  a  little  indiscreet.  People 
liave  been  talking." 

"Then  theirs,  not  mine,  is  the  indiscretion." 

"But,  my  dear  Marcus,  when  you  spring  a  good-look- 
ing young  person,  whom  you  introduce  as  your  Moham- 
medan ward,  upon  London  society,  and  she  makes  a  scene 
In  public  —  why  —  what  else  have  people  got  to  talk 
about?" 

"They  might  fall  back  upon  the  doctrine  of  predestina- 
tion or  the  price  of  fish,"  I  replied  urbanely. 

"  But  I  assure  you,  Marcus,  that  there  is  a  hint  of  scan- 
dal abroad.  It  is  actually  said  that  she  is  living  here." 

"People  will  say  anything,  true  or  untrue,"  said  I. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      123 

My  aunt  sighfully  acquiesced,  and  for  a  while  we  dis- 
cussed the  depravity  of  human  nature. 

"I  have  been  thinking,"  she  said  at  last,  "that  if  you 
brought  your  ward  to  see  us,  and  she  could  accompany  us 
on  this  cruise  to  Norway,  the  scandal  would  be  scotched 
outright." 

She  glanced  at  me  very  keenly,  and  beneath  her  indul- 
gent smile  I  saw  the  hardness  of  the  old  campaigner.  It 
was  a  clever  trap  she  had  prepared  for  me. 

I  took  her  hand  and  in  my  noblest  manner,  like  the  ex- 
iled vicomte  in  costume  drama,  bent  over  it  and  kissed  her 
finger-tips. 

"  I  thank  you,  my  dear  aunt,  for  your  generous  faith  in 
my  integrity,"  I  said,  "and  I  assure  you  your  confidence 
is  well  founded." 

A  loud,  gay  laugh  from  the  other  room  interrupted  me. 

"Are  you  two  rehearsing  private  theatricals?"  cried 
Dora.  As  I  was  attired  in  a  remarkably  old  college  blazer 
and  a  pair  of  yellow  Moorish  slippers  bought  a  couple  of 
years  ago  in  Tangier,  and  as  my  hair  was  straight  on 
end,  owing  to  a  habit  of  passing  my  fingers  through  it 
while  I  work,  my  attitude  perhaps  did  not  strike  a  specta- 
tor as  being  so  noble  as  I  had  imagined.  I  took  advantage 
of  the  anti-climax,  however,  to  bring  my  aunt  from  the 
balcony  to  the  centre  of  the  room,  where  Dora  joined  us. 

"Well,  has  mother  prevailed?" 

"My  dear  Dora,"  said  I,  politely,  "how  can  you  imagine 
it  could  possibly  be  a  question  of  persuasion  ?" 

"That  might  be  taken  two  ways,"  said  Dora.  "Like 
Palmerston's  'Dear  Sir,  I'll  lose  no  time  in  reading  your 
book.'" 

Dora  is  a  minx. 

"I  fear,"  said  I,  "that  my  pedantic  historical  sense  must 
venture  to  correct  you.  It  was  Lord  Beaconsfield." 


1 24    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"Well,  he  got  it  from  Palmerston,"  insisted  Dora. 

"You  children  must  not  quarrel,"  interposed  my  aunt, 
in  the  fond,  maternal  tone  which  I  find  peculiarly  unpleas- 
ant. "Marcus  will  see  how  his  engagements  stand,  and 
let  us  know  in  a  day  or  two." 

"When  do  you  propose  to  start?"  I  asked. 

"  Quite  soon.    On  the  20th. " 

"I  will  let  you  know  finally  in  good  time,"  said  I. 

As  I  accompanied  them  downstairs,  I  heard  a  door 
at  the  end  of  the  passage  open,  and  turning  I  saw  Carlotta's 
pretty  head  thrust  past  the  jamb,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
visitors.  I  motioned  her  back,  sharply,  and  my  aunt  and 
Dora  made  an  unsuspecting  exit.  The  noise  of  their  de- 
parting chariot  wheels  was  music  to  my  ears. 

Carlotta  came  rushing  out  of  her  sitting-room  followed 
by  Miss  Griggs,  protesting. 

"Who  those  fine  ladies?"  she  cried,  with  her  hands  on 
my  sleeve. 

"Who  are  those  ladies?"  I  corrected. 

"Who  are  those  ladies?"  Carlotta  repeated,  like  a  de- 
mure parrot. 

"They  are  friends  of  mine." 

Then  came  the  eternal  question. 

"Is  she  married,  the  young  one?" 

"Miss  Griggs,"  said  I,  "kindly  instil  into  Carlotta's 
mind  the  fact  that  no  young  English  woman  ever  thinks 
about  marriage  until  she  is  actually  engaged,  and  then  her 
thoughts  do  not  go  beyond  the  wedding." 

"But  is  she?"  persisted  Carlotta. 

"I  wish  to  heaven  she  was,"  I  laughed,  imprudently, 
"for  then  she  would  not  come  and  spoil  my  morning's 
work." 

"Oh,  she  wants  to  marry  you,"  said  Carlotta. 

"Miss  Griggs,"  said  I,  "Carlotta  will  resume  her  stud- 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     125 

ies,"  and  I  went  upstairs,  sighing  for  the  beautiful  tc^er 
with  a  lift  outside. 

July  i  ^th. 

Pasquale  came  in  about  nine  o'clock,  and  found  us  play- 
ing cards. 

He  is  a  bird  of  passage  with  no  fixed  abode.  Some 
weeks  ago  he  gave  up  his  chambers  in  St.  James's,  and 
went  to  live  with  an  actor  friend,  a  grass- widower,  who  has 
a  house  in  the  St.  John's  Wood  Road  close  by.  Why  Pas- 
quale, who  loves  the  palpitating  centres  of  existence,  should 
choose  to  rusticate  in  this  semi-arcadian  district,  I  cannot 
imagine.  He  says  he  can  think  better  in  St.  John's  Wood. 

Pasquale  think!  As  well  might  a  salmon  declare  it 
could  sing  better  in  a  pond!  The  consequence  of  his  pro- 
pinquity, however,  has  been  that  he  has  dropped  in  several 
times  lately  on  his  way  home,  but  generally  at  a  later  hour. 

"  Oh,  please  don't  move  and  spoil  the  picture,"  he  cried. 
"Oh,  you  idyllic  pair!  And  what  are  you  playing ?  Crib- 
bage!  If  I  had  been  challenged  to  guess  the  game  you 
would  have  selected  for  your  after-dinner  entertainment,  I 
should  have  sworn  to  cribbage!" 

"An  excellent  game,"  said  I.  Indeed,  it  is  the  only  game 
that  I  remember.  I  dislike  cards.  They  bore  me  to  death. 
So  does  chess.  People  love  to  call  them  intellectual  pas- 
tunes;  but,  surely,  if  a  man  wants  exercise  for  his  intel- 
lect, there  are  enough  problems  in  this  complicated  uni- 
verse for  him  to  worry  his  brains  over,  with  more  profit  to 
himself  and  the  world.  And  as  for  the  pastime — I  con- 
sider that  when  two  or  more  intelligent  people  sit  down  to 
play  cards  they  are  insulting  one  another's  powers  of  con- 
versation. These  remarks  do  not  apply  to  my  game  with 
Carlotta,  who  is  a  child,  and  has  to  be  amused.  She  has 
picked  up  cribbage  with  remarkable  quickness,  and  al- 


126    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

though  this  is  only  the  third  evening  we  have  played,  she 
was  getting  the  better  of  me  when  Pasquale  appeared. 

I  repeated  my  statement.  Cribbage  certainly  was  an 
excellent  game.  Pasquale  laughed. 

"Of  course  it  is.  A  venerable  pastime.  Darby  and 
Joan  have  played  it  of  evenings  for  the  last  thousand  years. 
Please  go  on." 

But  Carlotta  threw  her  cards  on  the  table  and  herself  on 
the  sofa  and  said  she  would  prefer  to  hear  Pasquale  talk. 

"He  says  such  funny  things." 

Then  she  jumped  from  the  sofa  and  handed  him  the 
box  of  chocolates  that  is  never  far  from  her  side.  How 
lithe  her  movements  are! 

"  Pasquale  says  you  were  his  schoolmaster,  and  used  to 
beat  him  with  a  big  stick,"  she  remarked,  turning  her  head 
toward  me,  while  Pasquale  helped  himself  to  a  sweet. 

He  was  clumsy  in  his  selection,  and  the  box  slipped  from 
Carlotta's  hand  and  the  contents  rolled  upon  the  floor. 
They  both  went  on  hands  and  knees  to  pick  them  up,  and 
there  was  much  laughing  and  whispering. 

It  is  curious  that  I  cannot  recall  Pasquale  having  al- 
luded, in  Carlotta's  presence,  to  our  early  days.  It  was  on 
my  tongue  to  ask  when  he  committed  the  mendacity — for 
in  that  school  not  only  did  the  assistant  masters  not  have 
the  power  of  the  cane,  but  Pasquale,  being  in  the  sixth 
form  at  the  time  I  joined,  was  exempt  from  corporal  pun- 
ishment— when  they  both  rose  flushed  from  their  grovel- 
ling beneath  the  table,  and  some  merry  remark  from  Pas- 
quale put  the  question  out  of  my  head. 

All  this  is  unimportant.  The  main  result  of  Pasquale's 
visit  this  evening  is  a  discovery. 

Now,  is  it,  after  all,  a  discovery,  or  only  the  non-moral 
intellect's  sinister  attribution  of  motives  ? 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      127 

"A  baby  in  long  clothes  would  have  seen  through  it," 
said  Pasquale.  "  Lord  bless  you,  if  I  were  in  your  posi- 
tion I  would  go  on  board  that  yacht,  I'd  make  violent  love 
to  every  female  there,  like  the  gentleman  in  Mr.  Wycher- 
ley's  comedy,  I'd  fill  a  salmon  fly-book  with  samples  of 
their  hair,  I'd  make  them  hate  one  another  like  poison,  and 
at  the  end  of  the  voyage  I'd  announce  my  engagement  to 
Carlotta,  and  when  they  all  came  to  the  wedding  I'd  make 
the  fly-book  the  most  conspicuous  of  wedding  presents  on 
the  table,  from  the  bridegroom  to  the  bride.  By  George  £ 
I'd  cure  them  of  the  taste  for  man-hunting!" 

I  wonder  what  impelled  me  to  tell  Pasquale  of  the  pro- 
posed yachting  cruise  ?  We  sat  smoking  by  the  open  win- 
dow, long  after  Carlotta  had  been  sent  to  bed,  and  look- 
ing at  a  full  moon  sailing  over  the  tops  of  the  trees  in  the 
park;  enveloped  in  that  sensuous  atmosphere  of  a  warm 
summer  night  which  induces  a  languor  in  the  body  and  in 
the  will.  On  such  a  night  as  this  young  Lorenzo,  if  he 
happens  to  have  Jessica  by  his  side,  makes  a  confounded 
idiot  of  himself,  to  his  life's  undoing;  and  on  such  a  night 
as  this  a  reserved  philosopher  commits  the  folly  of  discuss- 
ing his  private  affairs  with  a  Sebastian  Pasquale. 

But  if  he  is  correct  in  his  surmise,  I  am  much  beholden 
to  the  relaxing  influences  of  the  night.  I  have  been  warned 
of  perils  that  encompass  me:  perils  that  would  infest  the 
base  and  insidiously  scale  the  sides  of  the  most  inaccessible 
tower  that  man  could  build  on  the  edge  of  the  Regent's 
Park.  A  woman  with  a  Matrimonial  Purpose  would  be 
quite  capable  of  gaining  access  by  balloon  to  my  turret 
window.  Is  it  not  my  Aunt  Jessica's  design  melodramati- 
cally to  abduct  me  in  a  yacht  ? 

"Once  aboard  the  pirate  lugger,  and  the  man  is  ours!" 
she  cries. 

But  the  man  is  not  coming  aboard  the  pirate  lugger.    He 


128     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

is  going  to  keep  as  far  as  he  possibly  can  from  the  shore. 
Neither  is  he  to  be  lured  into  bringing  his  lovely  Moham- 
medan ward  with  him,  as  an  evidence  of  good  faith  and 
unimpeachable  morals.  They  can  regard  her  as  a  Mo- 
tammedan  ward  or  a  houri  or  a  Princess  of  Babylon,  just 
as  they  choose. 

Pasquale  must  be  right.  A  hundred  remembered  inci- 
dents go  to  prove  it.  I  recollect  now  that  Judith  has  ral- 
lied me  on  my  obtuseness. 

The  sole  end  of  all  my  Aunt  Jessica's  manoeuvring  is  to 
marry  me  to  Dora,  and  Dora,  like  Barkis,  is  willing. 
Marry  Dora!  The  thought  is  a  febrifuge,  a  sudorific! 
She  would  be  thumping  discords  on  my  wornout  strings 
all  day  long.  In  a  month  I  should  be  a  writhing  madman. 
I  would  sooner,  infinitely  sooner,  marry  Carlotta.  Car- 
lotta  is  nature;  Dora  isn't  even  art.  Why,  in  the  name  of 
men  and  angels,  should  I  marry  Dora  ?  And  why  (save  to 
call  herself  Lady  Ordeyne)  should  she  want  to  marry  me  ? 
I  have  not  trifled  with  her  virgin  affections ;  and  that  she 
is  nourishing  a  romantic  passion  for  me  of  spontaneous 
growth  I  decline  to  believe.  For  aught  I  care  she  can  be 
as  inconsolable  as  Calypso.  It  will  do  her  good.  She  can 
write  a  little  story  about  it  in  The  Sirens'  Magazine. 

I  am  shocked.  For  all  her  bouncing  ways  and  animal 
health  and  incorrect  information,  I  thought  Dora  was  a 
nice-minded  girl. 

Do  nice-minded  girls  hunt  husbands  ? 

Good  heavens!  This  looks  like  the  subject  of  a  silly- 
season  correspondence  in  The  Daily  Telegraph  I 


CHAPTER  XI 
July  igth. 

Campsie,  N.  B.  Hither  have  I  fled  from  my  buccaneer- 
ing relations.  I  am  seeking  shelter  in  a  manse  in  the  midst 
of  a  Scotch  moor,  and  the  village,  half  a  mile  away,  is  itself 
five  miles  from  a  railway  station.  Here  I  can  defy  Aunt 
Jessica. 

After  my  conversation  with  Pasquale,  I  passed  a  rest- 
less night.  My  slumbers  were  haunted  by  dreams  of  pirate 
yachts  flying  the  Jolly  Roger,  on  which  the  skull  and  cross- 
bones  melted  grotesquely  into  a  wedding-ring  and  a  true 
lovers'  knot.  I  awoke  to  the  conviction  that  so  long  as  the 
vessel  remained  on  English  waters  I  could  find  no  security 
in  London.  I  resolved  on  flight.  But  whither? 

Verily  the  high  gods  must  hold  me  in  peculiar  favour. 
The  first  letter  I  opened  was  from  old  Simon  McQuhatty, 
my  present  host,  a  godfather  of  my  mother,  who  alone  of 
mortals  befriended  us  in  the  dark  days  of  long  ago.  He 
was  old  and  infirm,  he  wrote,  and  Gossip  Death  was  wait- 
ing for  him  on  the  moor;  but  before  he  went  to  join  him 
he  would  like  to  see  Susan's  boy  again.  I  could  come 
whenever  I  liked.  A  telegram  from  Euston  before  I 
started  would  be  sufficient  notice.  I  sent  Stenson  out  with 
a  telegram  to  say  I  was  starting  that  very  day  by  the  two 
o'clock  train,  and  I  wrote  a  polite  letter  to  my  Aunt  Jessica 
informing  her  of  my  regret  at  not  being  able  to  accept  her 
kind  invitation  as  I  was  summoned  to  Scotland  for  an  in- 
definite period. 

My  old  friend's  ministry  in  the  Free  Kirk  of  Scotland  is 
drawing  to  a  close;  he  has  lived  in  this  manse,  a  stone's 

9  129 


130     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

throw  from  his  grave,  for  fifty  years,  and  the  approaching 
change  of  habitat  will  cost  him  nothing.  He  will  still  lie 
at  the  foot  of  his  beloved  hills,  and  the  purple  moorland 
will  spread  around  him  for  all  eternity,  and  the  smell  of 
the  gorse  and  heather  will  fill  his  nostrils  as  he  sleeps.  He 
is  a  bit  of  a  pagan,  old  McQuhatty,  in  spite  of  Calvin 
and  the  Shorter  Catechism.  I  should  not  wonder  if  he 
were  the  original  of  the  story  of  the  minister  who  prayed 
for  the  "  puir  Deil."  He  planted  a  rowan  tree  by  his  porch 
when  he  was  first  inducted  into  the  manse,  and  it  has 
grown  up  with  him  and  he  loves  it  as  if  it  were  a  human 
being.  He  has  had  many  bonny  arguments  with  it,  he 
says,  on  points  of  doctrine,  and  it  has  brought  comfort  to 
him  in  times  of  doubt  by  shivering  its  delicate  leaves  and 
whispering,  "  Dinna  fash  yoursel,  McQuhatty.  The  Lord 
God  is  a  sensible  body."  He  declares  that  the  words  are 
articulate,  and  I  suspect  that  in  the  depths  of  his  heart  he 
believes  that  there  are  tongues  in  trees  and  books  in  the 
running  brooks,  just  as  he  is  convinced  that  there  is  good 
in  everything. 

He  is  a  ripe  and  whimsical  scholar,  and  his  talk,  even  in 
infirm  old  age,  is  marked  by  a  Doric  virility  which  has  ren- 
dered his  companionship  for  these  five  days  as  stimulat- 
ing as  the  moorland  air.  How  few  men  have  this  gift  of 
discharging  intellectual  invigoration.  Indeed,  I  only  know 
old  McQuhatty  who  has  it,  and  a  sportive  Providence  has 
carefully  excluded  mankind  from  its  benefits  for  half  a 
century.  Stay:  it  once  fostered  a  genius  who  arose  in 
Campsie,  and  sent  him  strung  with  tonic  to  Edinburgh  to 
become  a  poet.  But  the  poor  lad  drank  whisky  for  two 
years  without  cessation,  so  that  he  died,  and  McQuhatty's 
inspiration  was  wasted.  What  intellectual  stimulus  can  he 
afford,  for  instance,  to  Sandy  McGrath,  an  elder  of  the 
kirk  whom  I  saw  coming  up  the  brae  on  Sunday?  An  old 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      131 

ram  stood  in  the  path  and,  as  obstinate  as  he,  refused  to 
budge.  And  as  they  looked  dourly  at  each  other,  I  won- 
dered if  the  ram  were  dressed  in  black  broadcloth  and 
McGrath  in  wool,  whether  either  of  their  mothers  would 
notice  the  metamorphosis.  Yet  my  host  declares  that  I  see 
with  the  eyes  of  a  Southron;  that  the  Scotch  peasant  when 
he  is  not  drunk  is  intellectual,  and  that  there  is  no  oc- 
casion on  which  he  is  not  ready  for  theological  dispu- 
tation. 

"But  I  dinna  mind  telling  you,"  he  added,  "that  I'd  as 
lief  talk  with  my  rowan  tree.  It  does  nae  blaze  into  a  con- 
flagration at  a  comfortable  wee  bit  of  false  doctrine." 

I  should  love  to  stay  all  the  summer  with  my  old  friend, 
It  seems  that  only  from  such  a  remote  solitude  can  one 
view  things  mundane  in  the  right  perspective,  and  in  their 
true  proportion.  One  would  see  how  important  or  unim- 
portant in  the  cosmos  was  the  agricultural  ant's  dream  of 
three  millimetres  and  an  aphis  compared  with  the  aspira- 
tions of  the  English  labourer.  One  would  justly  focus  the 
South  African  millionaire,  Sandy  McGrath  and  the  ram, 
and  bring  them  to  their  real  lowest  common  denominator. 
One  would  even  be  able  to  gauge  the  value  of  a  History  of 
Renaissance  Morals.  The  benefits  I  should  derive  from  a. 
long  sojourn  are  incalculable,  but  my  new  responsibilities 
call  me  back  to  London  and  its  refracting  and  distorting 
atmosphere.  If  I  had  dwelt  here  for  fifty  years  I  should 
have  perceived  that  Carlotta  was  but  a  speck  in  the  whirl- 
wind of  human  dust  whose  ultimate  destiny  was  imma- 
terial. As  my  five  days'  visit,  however,  has  not  advanced 
me  to  that  pitch  of  wisdom,  I  am  foolishly  concerned  in 
my  mind  as  to  her  welfare,  and  anxious  to  dissolve  the 
triumvirate,  Miss  Griggs,  Stenson,  and  Antoinette,  whom 
I  have  entrusted  with  the  reins  of  government. 

A  month  ago,  in  similar  circumstances,  I  should  have 


132    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

railed  at  Fate  and  anathematised  Carlotta  from  the  tip  of 
her  pink  toes  to  the  gold  and  bronze  glory  of  her  hair.  But 
I  am  growing  more  kindly  disposed  towards  Carlotta,  and 
taking  a  keen  interest  in  her  spiritual  development. 

An  inner  voice,  an  ironical,  sardonic  inner  voice  with 
which  there  is  no  arguing,  tells  me  that  I  am  a  hypocrite; 
that  an  interest  in  Carlotta's  spiritual  development  is  a 
nice,  comforting,  high-sounding  phrase  which  has  deluded 
philosophic  guardians  of  female  youth  for  many  genera- 
tions. 

"  What  does  it  matter  to  you  whether  she  has  a  soul  or 
not,"  says  the  voice,  "provided  she  can  babble  pleasantly 
at  dinner  and  play  cribbage  with  you  afterwards?" 

Well,  what  on  earth  does  it  matter  ? 

July  2  is/. 

She  was  at  Euston  to  meet  me.  As  soon  as  she  saw  my 
face  at  the  carriage  window  she  left  Stenson  and  flew  up  the 
platform  like  a  pretty  tame  animal,  and  when  I  alighted 
hung  on  my  arms  and  frisked  and  gamboled  around  me 
in  excess  of  joy. 

"So  you  are  glad  to  have  me  back,  Carlotta?"  I  asked, 
as  we  were  driving  home. 

She  sidled  up  against  me  in  her  terrier  fashion. 

"Oh,  ye-es,"  she  cooed.  "The  day  was  night  without 
you." 

"That  is  the  oriental  language  of  exaggeration,"  I  said. 
But  all  the  same  it  was  pleasant  to  hear,  and  the  soft  notes 
of  her  voice  coiled  themselves,  as  music  sometimes  does, 
around  my  heart. 

"I  love  dear  Seer  Marcous,"  she  said. 

I  put  my  arm  round  her  waist  for  a  moment,  as  one 
would  do  to  a  child. 

"You  are  a  good  little  girl,  Carlotta.    That  is  to  say," 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      133 

I  added,  remembering  my  responsibilities,  "if  you  have 
been  good.  Have  you?" 

"  Oh,  so  good.  Antoinette  has  been  teaching  me  how  to 
cook,  and  I  can  make  a  rice  pudding.  It  is  so  nice  to  cook 
things.  I  like  the  smell.  But  I  burned  myself.  See." 

She  pulled  off  her  glove  and  showed  me  a  red  mark  on 
her  hand.  I  kissed  it  to  make  it  well,  and  she  laughed  and 
was  very  happy.  And  I,  too,  was  happy.  Something  new 
and  fresh  and  bright  has  come  into  my  life.  Stenson  is  an 
admirable  servant;  but  his  impassive  face  and  correct 
salute  which  have  hitherto  greeted  me  at  London  railway 
termini,  although  suggestive  of  material  comfort,  cannot 
be  said  to  invest  my  arrival  with  a  special  atmosphere  of 
charm.  Carlotta's  welcome  has  been  a  new  sensation.  I 
look  upon  the  house  with  different  eyes.  It  was  a  pleas- 
ure, as  I  dressed  for  dinner,  to  reflect  that  I  should  not  go 
down  to  a  solemn,  solitary  meal,  but  would  have  my  beau- 
tiful little  witch  to  keep  me  company. 

July  22d. 

It  appears  that  her  conduct  has  not  been  by  any  means 
irreproachable.  Miss  Griggs  reported  that  she  took  ad- 
vantage of  my  absence  to  saturate  herself  with  scent,  one 
of  the  most  heinous  crimes  in  our  domestic  calendar.  M u- 
lier  bene  olet  dum  nihil  olet  is  the  maxim  written  above  this 
article  of  our  code.  Once  when  she  disobeyed  my  orders 
and  came  into  the  drawing-room  reeking  of  ylang-ylang, 
I  sent  her  upstairs  to  change  all  her  things  and  have  a 
bath,  and  not  come  near  me  till  Antoinette  vouched  for 
her  scentlessness.  And  "Ah,  monsieur,"  I  remember  An- 
toinette replied,  "that  would  be  impossible,  for  the  sweet 
lamb  smells  of  spring  flowers,  de  son  naturel"  Which  is 
true.  Her  use  of  violent  perfumes  is  thus  a  double  offence. 

"There  is  something  more  serious,"  said  Miss  Griggs. 


134    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"I  can  hardly  believe  there  can  be  anything  more  seri- 
ous than  making  one's  self  detestable  to  one's  fellow-crea- 
tures," said  I. 

"Unless  it  is  making  one's  self  too  agreeable,"  said  Miss 
Griggs,  pointedly. 

I  asked  her  what  she  meant. 

"I  have  discovered,"  she  replied,  "that  Carlotta  has 
been  carrying  on  a  clandestine  flirtation  with  the  young 
man  who  calls  for  orders  from  the  grocer's." 

"I  am  glad  it  wasn't  the  butcher's  boy,"  I  murmured. 

Miss  Griggs  giggled  in  a  silly  way,  as  if  I  were  jesting. 
At  my  stern  request  she  recovered  and  unfolded  the  hor- 
rible tale.  She  had  caught  Carlotta  kissing  her  hand  to 
him.  She  had  also  seen  him  smuggle  a  three-cornered 
note  between  Carlotta's  fingers,  and  Carlotta  had  defi- 
nitely refused  to  surrender  the  billet-doux. 

"What  is  the  modern  course  of  treatment,"  I  asked, 
"prescribed  for  young  ladies  who  flirt  with  grocers'  assist- 
ants ?  In  Renaissance  times  she  could  be  whipped.  The 
wise  Margaret  of  Navarre  used  to  beat  her  daughter, 
Jeanne  d'Albrecht,  soundly  for  far  less  culpable  lapses 
from  duty.  Or  she  could  be  sent  to  a  convent  and  put 
into  a  cell  with  rats,  or  she  could  be  bidden  to  attend  at  a 
merry-making  where  the  chief  attraction  was  roast  gro- 
cer's assistant.  But  nowadays — what  do  you  suggest?" 

The  unimaginative  creature  could  suggest  nothing.  She 
thought  that  I  would  know  how  to  deal  with  the  offence. 
Perhaps  preventive  measures  would  be  more  efficacious 
than  punishment.  But  what  do  I  know  of  the  repressory 
methods  employed  in  seminaries  for  young  ladies?  Bur- 
ton in  his  "Anatomy"  speaks  cheerfully  of  blood-letting 
behind  the  ears.  He  also  quotes,  I  remember,  Hippocra- 
tes or  somebody,  who  narrates  that  a  noble  maiden  was 
cured  of  a  flirtatious  temperament  by  wearing  down  her 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      135 

back  for  three  weeks  a  leaden  plate  pierced  with  holes. 
This  I  told  Miss  Griggs,  who  spoke  contemptuously  of 
the  Father  of  Medicine. 

"He  also  recommends — whether  for  this  complaint,  or 
for  something  similar  I  forget  for  the  moment — "  said  I, 
"  anointing  the  soles  of  the  feet  with  the  fat  of  a  dormouse, 
the  teeth  with  the  ear-wax  of  a  dog;  and  speaks  highly  of 
a  ram's  lungs  applied  hot  to  the  fore  part  of  the  head.  I 
am  sorry  these  admirable  remedies  are1  out  of  date.  There 
is  a  rich  Rabelaisianism  about  them.  Instead  of  the  satis- 
fying jorums  of  our  forefathers  we  take  tasteless  pellets, 
which  procure  us  no  sensation  at  the  time,  and  even  the 
good  old  hot  mustard  poultice  is  a  thing  of  the  past." 

"But  what  about  Carlotta?"  inquired  Miss  Griggs, 
anxiously. 

That  is  just  like  a  woman,  to  interrupt  a  man  when  he 
is  beginning  to  talk  comfortably  on  a  subject  that  inter- 
ests him.  I  sighed. 

"  Send  Carlotta  up  to  me,"  I  said,  resignedly. 

Another  morning's  work  spoiled.  I  turned  to  my  writ- 
ing-table. I  had  just  transcribed  on  my  MS.  the  anec- 
dote told  with  such  glee  by  Machiavelli  about  Zanobi  del 
Pino,  a  sort  of  Admiral  Byng  of  the  early  fifteenth  century, 
who  was  locked  up  and  given  nothing  to  eat  but  paper 
painted  with  snakes,  so  that  he  died,  fasting,  in  a  few  days. 
I  had  an  apt  epigram  on  the  subject  of  Renaissance  hu- 
mour trembling  on  my  pen-point,  when  Miss  Griggs  came 
in  with  her  foolish  gossip.  I  am  sure  the  platitude  I  wrote 
afterwards  is  not  that  original  flash  of  wit. 

Carlotta  entered  and  crossed  the  room  to  the  side  of  my 
writing-chair,  her  great  dark  eyes  fixed  on  me,  and  her 
hands  dutifully  behind  her  back.  She  looked  a  Greuze 
picture  of  innocence.  I  believed  less  than  ever  hi  the  enor- 
mity of  the  offence. 


136     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"Do  you  know  what  you're  here  for?"  I  asked,  magis- 
terially. 

She  nodded. 

"Then  you  have  been  making  love  to  the  young  man 
from  the  grocer's?" 

She  nodded  again.  I  began  to  conceive  a  violent  dislike 
to  the  grocer's  young  man.  It  was  one  of  the  most  humil- 
iating sensations  I  have  experienced.  I  think  I  have  seen 
the  individual — a  thick-set,  red-headed,  freckled  nonde- 
script. 

"What  did  you  do  it  for?"  I  asked. 

"He  wanted  to  make  love  to  me,"  replied  Carlotta. 

"He  is  a  young  scamp,"  said  I. 

"What  is  a  scamp?"  she  asked  sweetly. 

"  I  am  not  giving  you  a  lesson  in  philology,"  I  remarked. 
"Do  you  know  that  you  have  been  behaving  in  a  shock- 
ing manner?" 

"Now  you  are  cross  with  me." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "infernally  angry." 

And  I  was.  I  expected  to  see  her  burst  into  tears.  She 
did  nothing  of  the  kind;  only  looked  at  me  with  irritating 
demureness.  She  wore  a  red  blouse  and  a  grey  skirt,  and 
the  audacious  high-heeled  red  slippers.  I  began  to  feel  the 
return  of  my  early  prejudice  against  her.  Nobody  so  allur- 
ing could  possess  a  spark  of  virtue. 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,"  said  I.  "I 
make  many  allowances  for  your  lack  of  knowledge  of  our 
Western  customs,  but  for  a  young  lady  to  flirt  with  an  ugly 
red-headed  varlet  of  the  lower  orders  is  reprehensible  all 
the  world  over." 

"  He  gave  me  dates  and  dried  fruits  with  sugar  all  over 
them,"  said  Carlotta. 

"Stolen  from  his  employer,"  I  said.  "I  will  have  that 
young  man  locked  up  in  prison,  and  if  you  go  on  receiving 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      1 37 

his  feloniously  obtained  presents  they  will  put  you  in  prison 
too,  and  I  shall  be  delighted." 

Carlotta  maintained  her  demure  expression  and  ex- 
tracted from  her  skirt  pocket  a  very  dirty  piece  of  paper. 

"He  writes  poetry — about  me,"  she  remarked,  handing 
me  what  I  recognised  as  the  three-cornered  note. 

I  took  the  thing  between  ringer  and  thumb,  and  glanced 
over  the  poem.  I  have  read  much  indifferent  modern 
verse  in  my  time — I  sometimes  take  a  slush-bath  after  tea 
at  the  club — but  I  could  not  have  imagined  the  English 
language  capable  of  such  emulsion.  It  was  execrable- 
The  first  couplet  alone  contained  an  idea. 

"  Thou  art  a  lovely  girl  and  so  very  nice 
I  dream  till  death  upon  your  face." 

To  the  wretch's  ear  it  was  a  rhyme!  I  destroyed  the 
noisome  thing  and  cast  it  into  the  waste-paper  basket. 

"  Prison,"  said  I,  "  would  be  a  luxurious  reward  for  him. 
In  a  properly  civilised  country  he  would  be  bastinadoed 
and  hanged." 

"Yes,  he  is  dam  bad,"  said  Carlotta,  serenely. 

"Good heavens!"  I  cried,  "the  ruffian  has  even  taught 
you  to  swear.  If  you  dare  to  say  that  wicked  word  again, 
I'll  punish  you  severely.  What  is  his  horrid  name?" 

"Pasquale,"  said  Carlotta. 

"Pasquale?" 

"Yes,  he  likes  to  hear  me  say  'dam.'  Oh,  the  other? 
Oh,  no,  he  is  too  stupid.  He  does  not  say  anything.  His 
name  is  Timkins.  I  only  play  with  him.  He  is  so  funny. 
He  can  go  and  kill  himself;  I  won't  care." 

"Never  mind  about  Timkins,"  said  I,  "I  want  to  hear 
about  Pasquale.  When  did  he  teach  you  that  wicked^ 
wicked  word?" 


138     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

I  think  Carlotta  flushed  as  she  regarded  the  point  of  her 
red  slipper. 

"I  went  for  a  walk  and  he  met  me  at  the  corner  and 
walked  here  by  my  side.  Was  that  wicked?" 

"What  would  the  excellent  Hamdi  Effendi  have  said  to 
it?" 

Woman-like  she  evaded  my  question. 

"I  hope  Hamdi  is  dead.    Do  you  think  so?" 

"  I  hope  not.  For  if  you  behave  in  this  naughty  manner, 
I  shall  have  to  send  you  back  to  him." 

She  had  imperceptibly  moved  nearer  my  chair  until  she 
stood  quite  close  to  my  side,  so  that  as  I  spoke  the  last 
words  I  looked  up  into  her  face.  She  put  her  arm  about 
my  shoulders.  It  is  one  of  her  pretty,  caressing  ways. 

"I  will  be  good — very  good,"  she  said. 

"You  will  have  to,"  said  I,  leaning  back  my  head. 

She  must  have  caught  a  relenting  note  in  my  voice ;  for 
what  happened  I  feel  even  now  a  curious  shame  in  noting 
down.  Her  other  arm  flew  under  my  chin  to  join  its  fel- 
low, and  holding  me  a  prisoner  in  my  chair,  she  bent  down 
and  kissed  me.  She  also  laid  her  cheek  against  mine. 

I  am  still  aware  of  the  indescribable,  soft,  warm  pres- 
sure, although  she  has  gone  to  bed  hours  ago. 

I  vow  that  a  man  must  be  less  a  man  than  a  petrified  egg 
to  have  repulsed  her.  The  touch  of  her  lips  was  like  the 
falling  of  dewy  rose-petals.  Her  breath  was  as  fragrant  as 
new-mown  hay.  Her  hair  brushing  my  forehead  had  the 
odour  of  violets. 

I  sent  her  back  to  Miss  Griggs.  She  ran  out  of  the  room 
laughing  merrily.  She  has  received  plenary  absolution  for 
her  shameless  coquetry  and  her  profane  language.  Worse 
than  that  she  has  discovered  how  to  obtain  it  in  future. 
The  witch  has  found  her  witchcraft,  and  having  once  tri- 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      139 

umphantly  exerted  her  powers,  will  take  the  earliest  op- 
portunity of  doing  so  again.  I  am  fallen,  both  in  my  own 
eyes  and  hers,  from  my  high  estate.  Henceforward  she 
will  regard  me  only  with  good-humoured  tolerance;  I  shall 
be  to  her  but  a  non-felonious  Timkins. 
I  was  an  idiot  to  have  kissed  her  in  return. 

I  have  not  seen  her  since.  I  lunched  at  the  club,  and 
paid  a  formal  call  on  Mrs.  Ralph  Ordeyne  and  my  cousin 
Rosalie,  in  their  sunless  house  in  Kensington. 

I  met  a  singular  lack  of  welcome.  Rosalie  gave  me  a 
limper  hand  than  usual,  and  took  an  early  opportunity  of 
leaving  me  t£te-a-tete  with  her  mother,  who  conversed 
frigidly  about  the  warm  weather.  The  very  tea,  if  possible, 
was  colder. 

I  met  Judith  by  appointment  in  Kensington  Gardens, 
and  walked  with  her  homewards.  I  mentioned  my  chilly 
reception. 

"  My  dear  man,"  she  observed — I  dislike  this  apostrophe, 
which  Judith  always  uses  by  way  of  introduction  to  an  un- 
pleasant remark — "My  dear  man,  I  have  no  doubt  that 
you  have  as  unsavoury  a  reputation  as  any  one  in  London. 
You  are  credited  with  an  establishment  like  Solomon's — 
minus  the  respectable  counter-balance  of  the  wives,  and 
your  devout  relatives  are  very  properly  shocked." 

I  said  that  it  was  monstrous.  Judith  retorted  that  I  had 
brought  the  calumny  upon  myself. 

"But  what  can  I  do?"  I  asked. 

"  Board  her  out  with  a  suburban  family,  as  you  should 
have  done  from  the  first.  Even  I,  who  am  not  strait-laced, 
consider  it  highly  improper  for  you  to  have  her  alone  with 
you  in  the  house." 

"My  dear,"  said  I,  "there  is  Antoinette." 

"Tush" — or  something  like  it — said  Judith. 


140     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"And  Stenson.  No  one  seeing  Stenson  could  doubt  the 
irreproachable  propriety  of  his  master." 

"I  really  have  no  patience  with  you,"  said  Judith. 

It  is  hopeless  to  discuss  Carlotta  with  her.  I  shall  do  it 
no  more. 

We  sat  for  a  while  under  the  trees,  and  conversed  on 
rational  topics.  She  likes  her  employment  with  Willoughby . 
The  morning  she  spends  among  blue  books  and  other 
waste  matter  at  the  British  Museum,  and  she  devotes  the 
evening  to  sorting  her  information.  Willoughby  com- 
mends her  highly. 

"And  there  is  something  I  know  you'll  be  very  pleased 
to  hear,"  she  continued.  "Who  do  you  think  called  on 
me  yesterday?  Mrs.  Willoughby.  Her  husband  wants 
me  to  spend  August  and  September  at  a  place  they  have 
taken  in  North  Wales,  and  help  him  with  his  new  book — as 
a  private  secretary,  you  know.  I  said  that  I  never  went  into 
society.  I  must  tell  you  this  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen 
her.  She  put  her  hand  on  my  arm  in  the  sweetest  way  in 
the  world  and  said :  '  I  know  all  about  it,  my  dear,  and  that 
is  why  I  thought  I'd  come  myself  as  Harold's  ambassador.' 
Wasn't  it  beautiful  of  her?" 

She  looked  at  me  and  her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

"Marcus  dear,  I  am  not  a  bad  woman,  am  I?" 

"My  dearest,"  I  answered,  very  deeply  touched,  "you 
are  the  best  woman  in  the  world.  So  far  from  conferring  a 
favour  on  you,  Mrs.  Willoughby  has  gained  for  herself  the 
inestimable  privilege  of  your  friendship." 

"Ah!"  said  Judith,  "a  man  cannot  tell  what  it  means." 

Really  men  are  not  such  dullard  dunderheads  as  women 
are  pleased  to  imagine.  I  have  the  most  crystalline  per- 
ception of  what  Mrs.  Willoughby's  invitation  means  to  Ju- 
dith. Women  appear  to  find  a  morbid  satisfaction  in  the 
fiction  that  their  sex  is  actuated  by  a  mysterious  nexus  of 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     141 

emotions  and  motives  which  the  grosser  sense  of  man  is 
powerless  to  appreciate.  In  her  heart  of  hearts  it  is  a  pro- 
digious comfort  to  a  woman  to  feel  herself  misunderstood. 
Even  she  who  is  most  perfectly  mated,  and  is  intellectually 
convinced  that  the  difference  of  sex  is  no  barrier  to  his 
complete  knowledge  of  her,  loves  to  cherish  some  little  secret 
bit  of  her  nature,  to  which  he,  on  account  of  his  masculin- 
ity, will  be  eternally  blind.  Of  course  there  are  dull  men 
who  could  not  understand  a  tabby-cat  or  a  professional 
cricketer,  let  alone  an  expert  autothaumaturgist — a  self- 
mystery-maker — like  a  woman.  But  an  intelligent  and 
painstaking  man  should  find  no  difficulty  in  appreciating 
what,  after  all,  is  merely  a  point  of  view;  for  what  women  see 
from  that  point  of  view  they  are  as  indiscreet  in  revealing 
as  a  two-year-old  babe.  I  have  confessed  before  that  I  do 
not  understand  Judith — that  is  to  say  the  whole  welter  of 
contradictions  in  which  her  ego  consists — but  that  is  solely 
because  I  have  not  taken  the  trouble  to  subject  her  to 
special  microscopic  study.  Such  a  scientific  analysis 
would,  I  think,  be  an  immodest  discourtesy  towards  any 
lady  of  my  acquaintance,  especially  towards  one  for  whom 
I  bear  considerable  affection.  It  would  be  as  unwarrant- 
able for  a  decent-minded  man  to  speculate  upon  her  exact 
spiritual  dimensions  as  upon  those  portions  of  her  physical 
frame  that  are  hidden  beneath  her  attire.  The  charm  of 
human  intercourse  rests,  to  a  great  extent,  on  the  vague, 
the  deliberately  unperceived,  the  stimulating  sense  that  an 
individual  possesses  more  attributes  than  flash  upon  the 
bodily  or  mental  eye.  But  this,  I  say,  is  deliberate.  One 
knows  perfectly  well  that  beneath  her  skirts  any  young 
woman  you  please  does  not  melt  away  into  the  scaly  tail  of 
a  mermaid,  but  has  a  pair  of  ordinary  commonplace  legs. 
One  knows  that  when  she  has  passed  through  certain  well 
defined  experiences  in  life,  a  certain  definite  range  of  send- 


142    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

ments  must  exist  behind  whatever  mask  of  facial  expression 
she  may  choose  to  adopt.  It  is  sheer  nonsense,  therefore, 
for  Judith  to  say  that  I  cannot  enter  into  her  feelings  with 
regard  to  Mrs.  Willoughby's  invitation. 

I  developed  this  theme  very  fully  to  Judith  as  we  sat  in 
Kensington  Gardens  and  during  our  subsequent  stroll 
diagonally  through  Hyde  Park  to  the  Marble  Arch.  She 
listened  with  great  attention,  and  when  I  had  finished  re- 
garded me  in  a  pitying  manner,  a  smile  flickering  over  her 
lips. 

"My  dear  Marcus,"  she  said,  "there  is  no  man,  how- 
ever humble-minded,  who  has  not  one  colossal  vanity,  his 
knowledge  of  women.  He,  at  any  rate,  has  established  the 
veritable  Theory  of  Women.  And  we  laugh  at  you,  my 
good  friend,  for  the  more  you  expound,  the  more  do  you 
reveal  your  beautiful  and  artistic  ignorance.  Oh,  Marcus, 
the  idea  of  you  setting  up  as  a  feminine  psychologist." 

"And  pray,  why  not?"  I  asked,  somewhat  nettled. 

"Because  you  are  that  dear,  impossible,  lovable  thing 
known  as  Marcus  Ordeyne." 

This  was  exceedingly  pretty  of  Judith.  But  really 
woman  is  the  Eternal  Philistine,  as  Matthew  Arnold  has 
denned  the  term.  Her  supreme  characteristic  is  incon- 
vincibility.  I  had  simply  wasted  my  breath. 


CHAPTER  XII 
August  3<f. 

Etretat,  Seine- Inferieure : — A  young  fellow  on  the  Ca- 
sino terrace  this  evening  caught  my  eye,  looked  at  me 
queeriy,  and  passed  on.  His  face,  though  unfamiliar, 
stirred  some  dormant  association.  What  was  it?  The 
profitless  question  pestered  me  for  hours.  At  last,  during 
the  performance  at  the  theatre,  I  slapped  my  knee  and  said 
aloud : 

"I've  got  it!" 

"What?"  asked  Carlotta  in  alarm. 

"A  fly,"  I  answered.  Whereat  Carlotta  laughed,  and 
bent  forward  to  get  a  view  of  the  victim.  I  austerely  di- 
rected her  attention  to  the  stage.  It  was  a  metaphorical 
fly  whose  buzzing  I  had  stopped. 

The  young  fellow  was  he  who  had  pointed  me  out  in 
Hyde  Park  to  his  companion,  and  lightly  assured  her  that  I 
was  as  mad  as  a  dingo  dog.  From  the  moment  after  the 
phrase's  utterance  to  that  of  the  slapping  of  my  knee,  it 
had  been  altogether  absent  from  my  mind.  Now  it  haunts 
me.  It  reiterates  itself  after  the  manner  of  a  glib  phrase. 
I  am  glad  I  am  not  in  a  railway  carriage;  the  cranks 
would  amuse  the  wheels  with  it  all  night  long.  As  it  is,  the 
surf  tries  to  thunder  it  out  on  the  shingle  just  a  few  yards 
away  from  my  window.  I  keep  asking  myself:  why  a 
dingo  dog?  If  I  am  mad  it  is  in  a  gentle,  Jaquesian, 
melancholy  manner.  I  do  not  dash  at  life,  rabid  and  foam- 
ing at  the  mouth. 

I  think  the  idiot  simile  must  have  been  merely  the  mis 

143 


144    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

use  of  language  so  common  among  the  half-educated 
youth  of  Great  Britain. 

Yet  when  I  come  to  consider  my  present  condition,  I 
have  doubts  as  to  my  complete  sanity.  Here  am  I,  in  a 
little,  semi-fashionable  French  sea-side  place,  away  from 
my  books  and  my  comforts  and  my  habits,  as  much  inter- 
ested in  its  vapid  distractions  as  if  the  universe  held  no  other 
pursuits  worth  the  attention  of  a  rational  man.  And  I 
have  been  here  a  calendar  month. 

To  please  Carlotta  I  wear  white  duck  trousers,  a  pink 
shirt,  and  a  yachting-cap.  I  wired  for  them  to  my  London 
tailor  and  they  arrived  within  a  week.  The  first  time  I 
appeared  in  the  maniacal  costume  I  slunk  from  the  stony 
stare  of  a  gendarme,  as  I  was  about  to  ascend  the  Casino 
steps,  and  hid  myself  among  the  fishing-boats  lower  down 
on  the  beach.  Carlotta,  however,  was  delighted  and  said 
that  I  looked  pretty.  Now  I  have  grown  callous,  seeing 
other  fools  similarly  apparelled.  But  a  year  ago,  should  I 
have  dreamed  it  possible  for  me  to  strut  about  a  fashion- 
able plage  in  white  ducks,  a  pink  shirt,  and  a  yachting-cap  ? 
I  trow  not.  They  are  signs  of  some  sort  of  madness — 
whether  that  of  a  Jaques  or  a  dingo  dog  matters  very  little. 

Pasquale  was  the  main  cause  of  my  taking  Carlotta 
away  from  London.  He  came  far  too  frequently  to  the 
house,  established  far  too  great  a  familiarity  with  my  little 
girl.  She  quoted  him  far  too  readily.  She  is  at  the  im- 
pressionable age  when  young  women  fall  easy  victims  to 
the  allurements  of  a  fascinating  creature  like  Pasquale.  If 
he  showed  himself  in  the  light  of  a  possible  husband  for 
Carlotta,  I  should  have  nothing  to  say.  I  should  give  the 
pair  my  paternal  benediction.  But  I  know  my  Renais- 
sance and  I  know  my  Pasquale.  Carlotta  is  merely  a  new 
sensation — that's  all  he  seems  to  live  for,  the  delectable 
scoundrel.  But  I  am  not  going  to  have  her  heart  broken 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      145 

by  any  cinquecento  wolf  in  Poole's  clothing.  I  assume  that 
Carlotta  has  a  heart,  even  if  she  is  not  possessed  of  a  soul. 
As  to  the  latter  I  am  still  in  doubt.  At  all  events  I  resolved 
to  withdraw  Carlotta  from  his  influence,  put  her  in  fresh 
surroundings,  and  allow  her  to  mix  more  freely  among 
men  and  women,  so  as  to  divert  and  possibly  improve  her 
mind. 

I  perceive  that  Carlotta  is  becoming  an  occupation.  Well, 
she  is  quite  as  profitable  as  collecting  postage-stamps,  or 
golf,  or  amateur  photography. 

I  have  spent  a  pleasant  month  in  this  little  place.  It  is 
the  mouth  of  a  gorge  in  the  midst  of  a  cliff-bound  coast. 
The  bay,  but  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  sweep,  is  shut  in  at 
each  end  by  a  projecting  wall  of  cliff  cut  by  a  natural 
arch.  Half  the  shingle  beach  is  given  up  to  fisherfolk  and 
their  boats  and  tarred  Noah's  arks  where  they  keep  their 
nets.  The  other  half  suddenly  rises  into  a  digue  or  terrace 
on  which  is  built  a  primitive  casino,  and  below  the  terrace 
are  the  bathing-cabins.  We  are  staying  at  the  most  spot- 
lessly clean  of  all  clean  French  hotels.  There  are  no  car- 
pets on  the  stairs;  but  if  one  mounts  them  in  muddy  boots, 
an  untiring  chambermaid  emerges  from  a  lair  below,  with 
hot  water  and  scrubbing-brush  and  smilingly  removes  the 
traces  of  one's  passage.  Carlotta  and  Antoinette  have 
adjoining  rooms  in  the  main  building.  I  inhabit  the  an- 
nexe, sleeping  in  a  quaint,  clean,  bare  little  chamber  with 
a  balconied  window  that  looks  over  the  Noah's  Arks  and 
the  fishing- smacks  and  fisherfolk,  away  out  to  sea.  This 
morning  as  I  lay  in  bed  I  saw  our  Channel  fleet  lie  along 
the  arc  of  the  horizon. 

Antoinette  dwells  in  continuous  rapture  at  being  in 
France  again.  Carlotta  assures  me  that  the  smile  does  not 
leave  her  great  red  face  even  as  she  sleeps  of  nights.  It  is 

10 


146     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

a  little  jest  between  us.  She  peeped  in  once  to  see.  The 
good  soul  has  filled  herself  up  with  French  conversation  as 
a  starving  hen  gorges  herself  with  corn.  She  has  scraped 
acquaintance  with  every  washer-woman,  fish-wife,  mar- 
chande,  bathing  woman  and  domestic  servant  on  the  beach. 
She  is  on  intimate  terms  with  the  whole  male  native  popu- 
lation. When  the  three  of  us  happen  to  walk  together  it  is 
a  triumphal  progress  of  bows  and  grins  and  nods.  At  first 
I  thought  it  was  I  for  whom  this  homage  was  intended.  I 
was  soon  undeceived.  It  was  Antoinette.  She  loves  to 
parade  Carlotta  before  her  friends.  I  came  upon  her  once 
entertaining  an  admiring  audience  in  Carlotta's  presence 
with  a  detailed  description  of  that  young  woman's  physi- 
cal perfections — a  description  which  was  marked  by  a 
singular  lack  of  reticence.  The  time  of  her  glory  is  the 
bathing  hour,  when  she  accompanies  Carlotta  from  her  cab- 
in to  the  water's  edge,  divests  her  of  peignoir  and  espa- 
drilles,  but  before  revealing  her  to  fashionable  Etretat,  casts 
a  preliminary  glance  around,  as  who  should  say:  "Pre- 
pare all  men  and  women  for  the  dazzling  goddess  I  am 
about  to  unveil."  Carlotta  is  undoubtedly  bewitching  in 
her  bathing  costume,  and  enjoys  a  little  triumph  of 
beauty.  People  fall  into  a  natural  group  in  order  to  look 
at  her,  while  I,  sitting  on  a  camp-stool  in  my  white  ducks 
and  pink  shirt  and  smoking  a  cigarette,  cannot  repress  a 
complacent  pride  of  ownership.  I  do  not  object  to  her 
nicking  her  wet  fingers  at  me  when  she  comes  dripping  out 
of  the  sea;  and  I  do  not  even  reproach  her  when  she  puts 
her  foot  upon  my  sartorially  immaculate  knee,  to  show  me 
a  pebble-cut  on  her  glistening  pink  sole. 

Her  conduct  has  been  exemplary.  I  have  allowed  her 
to  make  the  acquaintance  of  two  or  three  young  fellows, 
her  partners  at  the  Casino  dances,  and  she  walks  up  and 
down  the  terrace  with  them  before  meals.  I  have  forbid- 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      147 

den  her,  under  penalty  of  immediate  return  to  London  and 
of  my  eternal  displeasure,  to  mention  the  harem  at  Alex- 
andretta.  Young  fellows  are  gifted  with  a  genius  for  mis- 
apprehension. She  is  an  ordinary  young  English  lady,  an 
orphan  (which  is  true),  and  I  am  her  guardian.  Of  course 
she  looks  at  them  with  imploring  eyes,  and  pulls  them  by 
the  sleeve,  and  handles  the  lappels  of  their  coats,  and  ad- 
mits them  to  terms  of  the  frankest  intimacy;  but  I  can  no 
more  change  these  characteristics  than  I  can  alter  the  shape 
of  her  body.  She  is  the  born  coquette.  Her  delighted 
conception  of  herself  is  that  she  is  the  object  of  every  man's 
admiration.  I  noticed  her  this  morning  playing  a  tune  with 
her  fingers  on  the  old  bathing-man's  arm,  as  he  was  prepar- 
ing to  take  her  into  the  water,  and  I  saw  his  mahogany  face 
soften.  In  her  indescribable  childish  way  she  would  co- 
quet with  a  tax-collector  or  a  rag-and-bone  man  or  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  But  she  has  committed  no 
grave  indiscretion,  and  I  am  sufficiently  her  lord  and  mas- 
ter to  exact  obedience. 

I  pretend,  however,  to  be  at  her  beck  and  call,  and  it  is 
a  delight  to  minister  to  her  radiant  happiness — to  feel  her 
lean  on  my  arm  and  hear  her  cooing  voice  say: 
"  You  are  so  good.    I  should  like  to  kiss  you." 
But  I  do  not  allow  her  to  kiss  me.    Never  again. 

"Seer  Marcous,  let  us  go  to  the  little  horses." 

She  has  a  consuming  passion  for  petits  chevaux.    I  speak 

sagely  of  the  evils  of  gambling.     She  laughs.    I  weakly 

take  lower  ground. 

"What  is  the  good?    You  have  no  money." 

"  Oh-h!    But  only  two  francs,"  she  says,  holding  out  her 

hand. 

"Not  one.    Yesterday  you  lost." 

"But  to-day  I  shall  win.    I  want  to  give  you  something 


148    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

I  saw  in  a  shop.  Oh,  a  beautiful  thing."  Then  I  feel  a 
hand  steal  into  the  pocket  of  my  dinner  jacket  where  I  carry 
loose  silver  for  this  very  purpose,  just  as  a  lover  of  horses 
carries  lumps  of  sugar  for  the  nose  of  a  favourite  pony,  and 
immediately  it  is  withdrawn  with  a  cry  of  joy  and  triumph, 
and  she  skips  back  out  of  my  reach.  Then  she  takes  my 
arm  and  leads  me  from  the  sweet  night-air  into  the  hot  lit- 
tle room  with  its  crowd  around  the  nine  gyrating  animals. 

"I  shall  put  it  on  5.  I  always  put  on  5.  He  is  a  nice, 
clean,  white,  pretty  horse." 

She  stakes  two  francs,  watches  the  turn  in  a  tense  agony 
of  excitement;  she  wins,  comes  running  to  me  with  six- 
teen francs  clutched  tight  in  her  hand. 

"  See.    I  said  I  should  win." 

"  Come  away  then  and  be  happy." 

But  she  makes  a  protesting  grimace,  and  before  I  can 
stop  her,  runs  back  to  stake  again  on  5.  In  twenty  min- 
utes she  is  ruined  and  returns  to  me  wearing  an  expression 
of  abject  misery.  She  is  too  desolate  even  to  try  the  for- 
tune of  the  dinner-jacket  pocket.  I  take  her  outside  and 
restore  her  to  beatitude  with  grenadine  syrup  and  soda- 
water.  She  rejects  the  straws.  With  her  elbows  on  the 
marble  table,  the  glass  held  in  both  hands,  she  drinks  sen- 
suously, in  little  sips. 

And  I,  Marcus  Ordeyne,  sit  by  watching  her,  a  most 
contented  philosopher  of  forty.  A  dingo  dog  could  not  be 
so  contented.  That  young  fellow,  I  unhesitatingly  assert, 
must  be  the  most  brainless  of  his  type.  I  suffer  fools  glad- 
ly, as  a  general  rule,  but  if  I  see  much  of  this  one  I  shall  do 
him  some  injury. 

After  dej'euner  we  strolled  to  the  top  of  the  west  cliff  and 
lay  on  the  thick  dry  grass.  The  earth  has  never  known  a 
more  perfect  afternoon.  A  day  of  turquoise  and  diamond. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      149 

The  air  itself  was  diaphanous  blue.  Below  us  the  tiny 
place  slumbered  in  the  sunshine;  scarcely  a  sign  of  life 
save  specks  of  washer-women  on  the  beach  bending  over 
white  patches  which  we  knew  were  linen  spread  out  to  dry. 
The  ebb-tide  lapped  lazily  on  the  shingle,  where  the  sea 
changed  suddenly  from  ultramarine  to  a  fringe  of  feath- 
ery white.  A  white  sail  or  two  flecked  the  blue  of  the  bay. 
A  few  white  wisps  of  cirrus  gleamed  above  our  heads. 
Around  us,  on  the  cliff-tops,  the  green  pastures  and  mead- 
ows and,  farther  inland,  the  cornfields  stacked  in  harvest, 
and  great  masses  of  trees.  Lying  on  our  backs,  between  sea 
and  sky,  we  seemed  utterly  alone.  Carlotta  and  I  were 
the  sole  inhabitants  of  the  earth.  I  dreamily  disintegrated 
caramels  from  their  sticky  tissue-paper  wrappings  for  Car- 
lotta's  consumption. 

After  a  while  unconquerable  drowsiness  crept  over  me; 
and  a  little  later  I  had  an  odd  sense  of  perfect  quietude.  I 
was  lying  amid  moss  and  violets.  In  a  languorous  way  I 
wondered  how  my  surroundings  had  changed,  and  at  last 
I  awoke  to  find  my  head  propped  on  Carlotta's  lap  and 
shaded  by  her  red  parasol,  while  she  sat  happy  in  full  sun- 
shine. I  was  springing  from  this  posture  of  impropriety 
when  she  laughed  and  laid  restraining  hands  on  my  shoul- 
ders. 

"No.  You  must  not  move.  You  look  so  pretty.  And 
it  is  so  nice.  I  put  your  head  there  so  that  it  should  be 
soft.  You  have  been  sound  asleep." 

"I  have  also  been  abominably  impolite,"  said  I.  "I 
humbly  beg  your  pardon,  Carlotta." 

"Oh,  I  am  not  cross,"  she  laughed.  Then  still  keeping 
her  hands  on  me,  she  settled  her  limbs  into  a  more  com- 
fortable position. 

"There!  Now  I  can  play  at  being  a  good  little  Turkish 
wife."  She  fashioned  into  a  fan  the  Matin  newspaper, 


150    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

which  I  had  bought  for  the  luxurious  purpose  of  not  read- 
ing, and  fanned  me.  "That  is  what  Ayesha  used  to  do  to 
Hamdi.  And  Ayesha  used  to  tell  him  stories.  But  my 
lord  does  not  like  his  slave's  stories." 

"Decidedly  not,"  said  I. 

I  have  heard  much  of  Ayesha,  a  pretty  animal  organism 
who  appears  to  have  turned  her  elderly  husband  into  a  dot- 
ing fool.  I  am  beginning  to  have  a  contempt  for  Hamdi 
Effendi. 

"They  are  what  you  call  improper,  eh?"  she  laughed, 
referring  to  the  tales.  "I  will  sing  you  a  Turkish  song 
which  you  will  not  understand." 

"Is  it  a  suitable  song?" 

"Kim  bilir — who  knows?"  said  Carlotta. 

She  began  a  melancholy,  crooning,  guttural  ditty;  but 
broke  off  suddenly. 

" Oh!  but  it  is  stupid.  Like  the  Turkish  dancing.  Oh, 
everything  in  Alexandretta  was  stupid!  Sometimes  I 
think  I  have  never  seen  Alexandretta — or  Ayesha — or 
Hamdi.  I  think  I  always  am  with  you." 

This  must  be  so,  as  of  late  she  has  spoken  little  of  her 
harem  life;  she  talks  chiefly  of  the  small  daily  happenings, 
and  already  we  have  a  store  of  common  interests.  The 
present  is  her  whole  existence;  the  past  but  a  confused 
dream.  The  odd  part  of  the  matter  is  that  she  regards  her 
position  with  me  as  a  perfectly  natural  one.  No  stray 
kitten  adopted  by  a  kind  family  could  have  less  sense  of 
obligation,  or  a  greater  faith  in  the  serene  ordering  of  the 
cosmos  for  its  own  private  and  peculiar  comfort.  When  I 
asked  her  a  while  ago  what  she  would  have  done  had  I 
left  her  on  the  bench  in  the  Embankment  Gardens,  she 
shrugged  her  shoulders  and  answered,  as  she  had  done 
before,  that  either  she  would  have  died  or  some  other  nice 
gentleman  would  have  taken  care  of  her. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      151 

"Do  you  think  nice  gentlemen  go  about  London  look- 
ing for  homeless  little  girls?"  I  asked  on  that  occasion. 

"All  gentlemen  like  beautiful  girls,"  she  replied,  which 
brought  us  to  an  old  argument. 

This  afternoon,  however,  we  did  not  argue.  The  day 
forbade  it.  I  lay  with  my  head  on  Carlotta's  lap,  looking 
up  into  the  deep  blue,  and  feeling  a  most  curious  sensation 
of  positive  happiness.  My  attitude  towards  life  has  hith- 
erto been  negative.  I  have  avoided  more  than  I  have 
sought.  I  have  not  drunk  deep  of  life  because  I  have  been 
unathirst.  To  me — 

"  To  stand  aloof  and  view  the  fight 
Is  all  the  pleasure  of  the  game." 

My  interest  even  in  Judith  has  been  of  a  detached  na- 
ture. I  have  been  like  Faust.  I  might  have  said: 

"  Werd"1  ich  zum  Augenblicke  sagen  : 
Werweile  dock  /   Du  bist  so  schon  f 

Then  may  the  devil  take  me  and  do  what  he  likes  with 
me!" 

I  have  never  had  the  least  inclination  to  apostrophise 
the  moment  in  this  fashion  and  request  it  to  tarry  on  ac- 
count of  its  exceeding  charm.  Never  until  this  afternoon, 
when  the  deep  summer  enchantment  of  the  turquoise  day 
was  itself  ensorcelised  by  the  witchery  of  a  girl's  spring- 
tide. 

"You  have  three,  four,  five — oh,  such  a  lot  of  grey 
hairs,"  said  Carlotta,  looking  down  on  my  reclining  head. 

"  Many  people  have  grey  hair  at  twenty,"  .said  I. 

"But  I  have  none." 

"You  are  not  yet  twenty,  Carlotta." 

"  Do  you  think  I  will  have  them  then  ?  Oh,  it  would  be 
dreadful.  No  one  would  care  to  have  me." 


152    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"And  I?  Am  I  thus  the  object  of  every  one's  disre- 
gard?" 

"  Oh,  you — you  are  a  man.  It  is  right  for  a  man.  It 
makes  him  look  wise.  His  wife  says,  'Behold,  my  hus- 
band has  grey  hair.  He  has  wisdom.  If  I  am  not  good  he 
will  beat  me.  So  I  must  obey  him.' " 

"She  wouldn't  run  off  with  a  good-for-nothing  scamp 
of  two-and-twenty?" 

"Oh,  no-o,"  said  Carlotta.  "She  would  not  be  so 
wicked." 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  I,  "  that  you  think  a  sense  of  con- 
jugal duty  is  an  ineradicable  element  of  female  nature. 
But  suppose  she  fell  in  love  with  the  young  scamp?" 

"Men  fall  in  love,"  she  replied  sagely.  "Women  only 
fall  in  love  in  stories — Turkish  stories.  They  love  their 
husbands." 

"You  amaze  me,"  said  I. 

"Ye-es,"  said  Carlotta. 

"But  in  England,  a  man  wants  a  woman  to  love  him 
before  he  marries  her." 

"How  can  she?"  asked  Carlotta. 

This  was  a  staggering  question. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  I,  "but  she  does." 

"Then  before  I  marry  a  man  in  England  I  must  love 
him  ?  But  I  shall  die  without  a  husband!" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  I. 

"I  must  begin  soon,"  said  Carlotta,  with  a  laugh. 

A  sinuous  motion  of  her  serpentine  young  body  en- 
abled her  to  bend  her  face  down  to  mine. 

"Shall  I  love  Seer  Marcous?  But  how  shall  I  know 
when  I  am  in  love?" 

"When  you  appreciate  the  exceeding  impropriety  of 
discussing  the  matter  with  your  humble  servant,"  Ire- 
plied. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     153 

"When  a  girl  is  in  love  she  does  not  speak  about  it?" 

"  No,  my  dear.  She  lets  concealment  like  a  worm  i'  the 
bud  feed  on  her  damask  cheek." 

"Then  she  gets  ugly?" 

"That's  it,"  I  answered.  "You  keep  on  looking  in  the 
glass,  and  when  you  perceive  you  are  hideous  then  you'll 
know  you  are  in  love." 

"  But  when  I  am  so  ugly  you  will  not  want  me,"  she  ob- 
jected. "  So  it  is  no  use  falling  in  love  with  you." 

"You  have  a  more  logical  mind  than  I  imagined," 
said  I. 

"What  is  a  logical  mind?"  asked  Carlotta. 

"It  is  the  antiseptic  which  destroys  the  bacilli  of  unrea- 
son whereby  true  happiness  is  vivified." 

"I  do  not  understand,"  she  said. 

"I  should  be  vastly  surprised  if  you  did,"  I  laughed. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  marry  and  go  away  and  leave 
you?"  asked  Carlotta,  after  a  long  pause. 

"I  suppose,"  I  said  with  a  sigh,  "that  some  tin-pot 
knight  will  drive  up  one  of  these  days  to  the  castle  in  a 
hansom-cab  and  carry  off  my  princess." 

"Then  you'll  be  sorry?" 

"My  dear,"  I  answered,  "do  not  let  us  discuss  such 
gruesome  things  on  an  afternoon  like  this." 

"You  would  like  better  for  me  to  go  on  playing  at  being 
your  Turkish  wife?" 

"Infinitely,"  said  I. 

Alas!  The  day  is  sped.  I  have  asked  the  fleeting  mo- 
ment to  tarry,  and  it  laughed,  and  shook  its  gossamer 
wings  at  me,  and  flew  by  on  its  mad  race  into  eternity. 

As  we  lay,  a  cicada  set  up  its  shrilling  quite  close  to  us. 
I  slipped  my  head  from  Carlotta's  lap  and  idly  parted  the 


154    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

rank  grass  in  search  of  the  noisy  intruder,  and  by  good 
luck  I  found  him.  I  beckoned  Carlotta,  who  glided  down, 
and  there,  with  our  heads  together  and  holding  our  breath, 
we  watched  the  queerest  little  love  drama  imaginable. 
Our  cicada  stood  alert  and  spruce,  waving  his  antennae 
with  a  sort  of  cavalier  swagger,  and  every  now  and  then 
making  his  corslet  vibrate  passionately.  On  the  top  of  a 
blade  of  grass  sat  a  brown  little  Juliet — a  most  reserved, 
discreet  little  Juliet,  but  evidently  much  interested  in 
Romeo's  serenade.  When  he  sang  she  put  her  head  to  one 
side  and  moved  as  if  uncertain  whether  to  descend  from 
her  balcony.  When  he  stopped,  which  he  did  at  frequent 
intervals,  being  as  it  were  timorous  and  tongue-tied,  she 
took  her  foot  from  the  ladder  and  waited,  at  first  patiently 
and  then  with  an  obvious  air  of  boredom.  Messer  Romeo 
made  a  hop  forward  and  vibrated ;  Juliet  grew  tremulous. 
Alarmed  at  his  boldness  he  halted  and  made  a  hop  back; 
Juliet  looked  disappointed.  At  last  another  cicada  set  up  a 
louder  note  some  yards  away  and,  without  a  nod  or  a  sign, 
Juliet  skipped  off  into  space,  leaving  the  most  disconso- 
late little  Romeo  of  a  grasshopper  you  ever  beheld.  He 
gave  vent  to  a  dismal  failure  of  a  vibration  and  hopped  to 
the  foot  of  the  faithless  lady's  bower. 

Carlotta  broke  into  a  merry  laugh  and  clapped  her  hands. 

"I  am  so  glad." 

"  She  is  the  most  graceless  hussy  imaginable,"  I  cried. 
"There  was  he  grinding  his  heart  out  for  her,  and  just  be- 
cause a  more  brazen-throated  scoundrel  came  upon  the 
scene  she  must  needs  leave  our  poor  friend  in  the  lurch. 
She  has  no  more  heart  than  my  boot,  and  she  will  come  to 
a  bad  end." 

"But  he  was  such  a  fool,"  retorted  my  sage  damsel, 
with  a  flash  of  laughter  in  her  dark  eyes.  "  If  he  wanted 
her,  why  didn't  he  go  up  and  take  her?" 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      155 

"Because  he  is  a  gentleman,  a  cicada  of  fine  and  deli- 
cate feeling." 

"Houl"  laughed  Carlotta.  "He  was  a  fool.  It  served 
him  right.  She  grew  tired  of  waiting." 

"You  believe,  then,"  said  I,  "in  marriage  by  capture?" 

I  explained  and  discoursed  to  her  of  the  matrimonial 
habits  of  the  Tartar  tribes. 

"Yes,"  said  Carlotta.  "That  is  sense.  And  it  must  be 
such  fun  for  the  girl.  All  that,  what  you  call  it  ? — wooing  ? 
• — is  waste  of  time.  I  like  things  to  happen,  quick,  quick,, 
one  after  the  other — or  else — " 

"Or  else  what?" 

"To  do  nothing,  nothing  but  lie  in  the  sun,  like  this 
afternoon." 

"Yes,"  said  I  dreamily,  after  I  had  again  thrown  my- 
self by  her  side.  "Like  this  afternoon." 

I  sit  at  my  window  and  look  out  upon  the  strip  of  beach, 
the  hauled-up  fishing  boats  and  the  nets  hung  out  to  dry 
looming  vague  in  the  starlight,  and  I  hear  the  surf's  rhyth- 
mical moan  a  few  yards  beyond ;  and  it  beats  into  my  ears 
the  idiot  phrase  that  has  recurred  all  the  evening. 

But  why  should  I  be  mad?  For  filling  my  soul  with 
God's  utmost  glory  of  earth  and  sea  and  sky  ?  For  filling 
my  heart  with  purest  pleasure  in  the  intimate  companion- 
ship of  fresh  and  fragrant  maidenhood  ?  For  giving  my- 
self up  for  once  to  a  dream  of  sense  clouded  by  never  a 
thought  that  was  not  serenely  fair? 

For  feeling  young  again  ? 

I  shall  read  myself  to  sleep  with  La  Dame  de  Monso- 
reau,  which  I  have  procured  from  the  circulating  library 
in  the  Rue  Alphonse  Karr — (the  literary  horticulturist  is 
the  genius  loci  and  the  godfather  of  my  landlady) — and  I 


156    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

will  empty  flagons  with  Pere  Gorenflot  and  ride  on  errands 
of  life  and  death  with  Chicot,  prince  of  jesters,  and  walk 
lovingly  between  the  valiant  Bussy  and  Henri  Quatre. 
By  this,  if  by  nothing  else,  I  recognise  the  beneficence  of 
the  high  gods — they  have  given  us  tired  men  Dumas. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
September  y>th. 

Something  is  wrong  with  Antoinette.  The  dinner  she 
served  up  this  evening  was  all  but  uneatable.  Something 
is  wrong  with  Stenson,  who  has  taken  to  playing  his  lugu- 
brious hymn-tunes  on  the  concertina  while  I  am  in  the 
house;  I  won't  have  it.  Something  is  wrong  with  the  cat. 
He  wanders  round  the  house  like  a  lost  soul,  sniffing  at 
everything.  This  evening  he  actually  jumped  onto  the 
dinner-table,  looked  at  me  out  of  his  one  eye,  in  which  all 
the  desolation  of  two  was  concentrated,  and  miaowed 
heart-rendingly  in  my  face.  Something  is  wrong  with  the 
house,  with  my  pens  which  will  not  write,  with  my  books 
which  have  the  air  of  dry  bones  in  a  charnel-house,  with 
the  MS.  of  my  History  of  Renaissance  Morals,  which 
stands  on  the  writing-table  like  a  dusty  monument  to  the 
futility  of  human  endeavour.  Something  is  wrong  with 
me. 

Something,  too,  is  wrong  with  Judith,  who  has  just  re- 
turned from  her  stay  with  the  Willoughbys.  I  have  been 
to  see  her  this  evening  and  found  her  of  uncertain  temper, 
and  inclined  to  be  contradictious.  She  accused  me  of  be- 
ing dull.  I  answered  that  the  autumn  world  outside  was 
drenched  with  miserable  rain.  How  could  man  be  sprightly 
under  such  conditions  ? 

"In  this  room,"  said  Judith,  "with  its  bright  fire  and 
drawn  curtains  there  is  no  miserable  rain,  and  no  autumn 
save  in  our  hearts." 

"Why  in  our  hearts?"  I  asked. 

157 


158     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"How  you  peg  one  down  to  precision,"  said  Judith, 
testily.  "I  wish  I  were  a  Roman  Catholic." 

"Why?" 

"I  could  go  into  a  convent." 

"You  had  much  better  go  to  Delphine  Carrere," 
said  I. 

"I  have  only  been  back  a  day,  and  you  want  to  get  rid 
of  me  already?"  she  cried,  using  her  woman's  swift  logic 
of  unreason. 

"I  want  you  to  be  happy  and  contented,  my  dear  Ju- 
dith." 

"H'm,"  she  said. 

Her  slipper  dangling  as  usual  from  the  tip  of  her  foot 
fell  to  the  ground.  I  declare  I  was  only  half  conscious  of 
the  accident  as  my  mind  was  deep  in  other  things. 

"You  don't  even  pick  up  my  slipper,"  she  said. 

"Ten  thousand  pardons,"  I  exclaimed,  springing  for- 
ward. But  she  had  anticipated  my  intention.  We  re- 
mained staring  into  the  fire  and  saying  nothing.  As  she 
professed  to  be  tired  I  went  away  early. 

At  the  front  door  of  the  mansions,  finding  I  had  left  my 
umbrella  behind,  I  remounted  the  stairs,  and  rang  Ju- 
dith's bell.  After  a  while  I  saw  her  figure  through  the 
ground-glass  panel  approach  the  door,  but  before  she 
opened  it,  she  turned  out  the  light  in  the  passage. 

"Marcus!"  she  cried,  rather  excitedly;  and  in  the  dim- 
ness of  the  threshold  her  eyes  looked  strangely  accusative 
of  tears.  "  You  have  come  back ! " 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "for  my  umbrella." 

She  looked  at  me  for  a  moment,  laughed,  clapped  her 
hands  to  her  throat,  turned  away  sharply,  caught  up  my 
umbrella,  and  putting  it  into  my  hands  and  thrusting  me 
back  shut  the  door  in  my  face.  In  great  astonishment  I 
went  downstairs  again.  What  is  wrong  with  Judith  ?  She 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     159 

said  this  evening  that  all  men  are  cruel.  Now,  I  am  a 
man.  Therefore  I  am  cruel.  A  perfect  syllogism.  But 
how  have  I  been  cruel? 

I  walked  home.  There  is  nothing  so  consoling  to  the 
depressed  man  as  the  unmitigated  misery  of  a  walk  through 
the  London  rain.  One  is  not  mocked  by  any  factitious 
gaiety.  The  mind  is  in  harmony  with  the  sodden  universe. 
It  is  well  to  have  everything  in  the  world  wrong  at  one  and 
the  same  time. 

I  have  changed  my  drenched  garments  for  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers.  I  find  on  my  writing-table  a  letter 
addressed  in  a  round  childish  hand.  It  is  from  Carlotta, 
who  for  the  last  fortnight  has  been  staying  in  Cornwall 
with  the  McMurrays.  I  have  known  few  fortnights  so 
long.  In  a  ridiculous  schoolboy  way  I  have  been  count- 
ing the  days  to  her  return — the  day  after  to-morrow. 

The  letter  begins:  " Seer  Marcous  dear."  The  spelling 
is  a  little  jest  between  us.  The  inversion  is  a  quaint  in- 
vention of  her  own.  "Mrs.  McMurray  says,  can  you 
spare  me  for  one  more  week  ?  She  wants  to  teach  me  man- 
ners. She  says  I  have  shocked  the  top  priest  here — oh, 
you  call  him  a  vikker — now  I  do  remember — because  I 
went  out  for  a  walk  with  a  little  young  pretty  priest  with- 
out a  hat,  and  because  it  rained  I  put  on  his  hat  and  the 
vikker  met  us.  But  I  did  not  flirt  with  the  little  priest. 
Oh,  no!  I  told  him  he  must  not  make  love  to  me  like  the 
young  man  from  the  grocer's.  And  I  told  him  that  if  he 
wrote  poetry  you  would  beat  him.  So  I  have  been  very 
good.  And  darling  Seer  Marcous,  I  want  to  come  back 
very  much,  but  Mrs.  McMurray  says  I  must  stay,  and  she 
is  going  to  have  a  baby  and  I  am  very  happy  and  good, 
and  Mr.  McMurray  says  funny  things  and  makes  me 
laugh.  But  I  love  my  darling  Seer  Marcous  best.  Give 


160     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

Antoinette  and  Polifemus  [the  one-eyed  cat]  two  very  nice 
kisses  for  me.    And  here  is  one  for  Seer  Marcous  from  his 

"  CARLOTTA." 

How  can  I  refuse?    But  I  wish  she  were  here. 

3 is/  October. 

I  did  not  sleep  last  night.  I  have  done  no  work  to-day. 
The  Renaissance  has  receded  into  a  Glacial  Epoch  where- 
in, as  far  as  its  humanity  is  concerned,  I  have  not  a  tittle 
of  interest.  I  sought  refuge  in  the  club.  Why  should  an 
old  sober  University  club  be  such  a  haven  of  unrest? 
Ponting,  an  opinionated  don  of  Corpus,  seated  himself  at 
my  luncheon  table,  and  discoursed  on  political  economy 
and  golf.  I  manifested  a  polite  ignorance  of  these  high 
matters.  He  assured  me  that  if  I  studied  the  one  and 
played  at  the  other,  I  should  be  physically  and  mentally 
more  robust;  whereupon  he  thumped  his  narrow  chest, 
and  put  on  a  scowl  of  intellectuality.  I  fear  that  Ponting, 
like  most  of  the  men  here,  studies  golf  and  plays  at  political 
economy.  In  serener  moments  I  suffer  Ponting  gladly. 
But  to-day  his  boast  that  he  had  done  the  course  at  West- 
ward Ho!  in  seven,  or  seventeen,  or  seventy — how  on  earth 
should  I  remember? — left  me  cold,  and  his  crude  econom- 
ics interfered  with  my  digestion. 

Strolling  forlornly  down  Piccadilly  I  came  face  to  face 
with  my  sad-coloured  Cousin  Rosalie  in  a  sad-coloured 
gown.  She  gave  me  a  hasty  nod  and  would  have  passed 
on,  but  I  arrested  her.  Her  white  face  was  turned  pite- 
ously  upward  and  from  her  expressionless  eyes  flashed  a 
glance  of  fear.  I  felt  myself  in  a  brutal  mood. 

"Why,"  I  asked,  "are  you  avoiding  me  as  if  I  were  a 
pestilence?" 

She  murmured  that  she  was  not  avoiding  me,  but  was 
in  a  hurry. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     161 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  I.  "People  have  been  telling 
you  that  I  am  a  vile,  wicked  man  who  does  unspeakable 
things,  and  like  a  good  little  girl  you  are  afraid  to  talk  to 
me.  Tell  people,  the  next  time  you  see  them,  with  my 
compliments,  that  they  are  malevolent  geese." 

I  lifted  my  hat  and  relieving  Rosalie  of  my  terrifying 
presence,  walked  away  in  dudgeon.  I  felt  abominably  and 
unreasonably  angry.  I  bethought  me  of  my  Aunt  Jessica, 
whom  I  held  responsible  for  her  niece's  behaviour.  A 
militant  mood  prompted  a  call.  After  twenty  minutes  in 
a  hansom  I  found  myself  in  her  drawing-room.  She  was 
alone,  the  girls  being  away  on  country-house  visits.  Her 
reception  was  glaciaL  I  expressed  the  hope  that  the 
yachting  cruise  had  been  a  pleasant  one. 

"  Exceedingly  pleasant,"  snapped  my  aunt. 

"I  trust  Dora  is  well,"  said  I,  keeping  from  my  lips  a 
smile  that  might  have  hinted  at  the  broken  heart. 

"Very  well,  thank  you." 

As  I  do  not  enjoy  a  staccato  conversation,  I  remained 
politely  silent,  inviting  her  by  my  attitude  to  speak* 

"I  rather  wonder,  Marcus,"  she  said  at  last,  "at  your 
referring  to  Dora." 

"  Indeed  ?    May  I  ask  why  ?  " 

"May  I  speak  plainly?" 

"  I  beseech  you." 

" I  have  heard  of  you  at  Etretat  with  your  ward" 

"Well?"  I  asked. 

"  Verbum  sap,"  said  my  aunt. 

"And  you  have  let  Mrs.  Ralph  and  Rosalie  know  of 
my  summer  holiday  and  given  them  to  understand  that 
I  am  a  monster  of  depravity.  I  am  exceedingly  obliged 
to  you.  I  have  just  met  Rosalie  in  the  street,  and  she 
shrank  from  me  as  if  I  were  the  reincarnation  of  original 
sin." 

i  < 


1 62     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"I  have  no  doubt  that  in  her  innocent  mind  you  are," 
replied  my  Aunt  Jessica. 

The  indulgent  smile  wherewith  she  used  to  humour  my 
eccentricities  had  gone,  and  her  face  was  hard  and  unpity- 
ing. 

"I  am  glad  I  have  such  charitable-minded  relations," 
said  I. 

"  I  am  a  woman  of  the  world,"  my  aunt  retorted,  "  but 
I  think  that  when  such  things  are  flaunted  in  the  face  of 
society  they  become  immoral." 

I  rose.  "  Do  evil  by  stealth — as  much  as  you  like,"  said 
I,  "but  blush  to  find  it  fame." 

With  a  gesture  my  aunt  assented  to  the  proposition. 

"On  the  other  hand,"  said  I,  heatedly,  "I  have  been 
doing  a  certain  amount  of  good  both  by  stealth  arid  openly, 
and  I  naturally  blush  with  indignation  to  find  it  accounted 
infamous." 

I  looked  narrowly  into  my  aunt's  eyes  and  I  read  in 
them  entire  disbelief  in  my  protest.  I  swear,  if  I  had 
proved  my  innocence  beyond  the  shadow  of  doubt,  that 
woman  would  have  been  grievously  disappointed. 

"Good-bye,"  said  I. 

She  shook  hands  frigidly  and  turned  to  ring  the  bell.  A 
moment  later — I  really  believe  she  was  moved  by  a  kindly 
impulse — she  intercepted  me  at  the  door. 

"I  know  you  are  odd  and  quixotic,  Marcus,"  she  said 
in  a  softer  tone.  "I  hope  you  will  do  nothing  rash." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked  in  a  white  heat  of  un- 
reasonable rage. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  try  to  repair  things  by  marrying  this 
— young  person." 

"To  make  an  honest  woman  of  her,  do  you  mean?" 
I  asked  grimly. 

"Yes,"  said  my  aunt. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      163 

Then  suddenly  the  Devil  leaped  into  me  and  stirred  all 
the  elements  of  unrest,  anger,  and  longing  together  in  a 
cauldron  which  I  suppose  was  my  heart.  The  result  was 
explosion.  I  made  a  step  forward  with  raised  hands  and 
my  aunt  recoiled  in  alarm. 

"By  heaven!"  I  cried,  "I  would  give  the  soul  out  of  my 
body  to  marry  her!" 

And  I  stumbled  out  of  the  house  like  a  blind  man. 


From  that  moment  of  dazzling  revelation  till  now  I  have 
nursed  this  infinite  desire.  To  say  that  I  love  Carlotta  is 
to  express  Niagara  in  terms  of  a  fountain.  I  crave  her 
with  everything  vital  in  heart  and  brain.  She  is  an  obses- 
sion. The  scent  of  her  hair  is  in  my  nostrils,  the  cooing 
dove-notes  of  her  voice  murmur  in  my  ears,  I  shut  my  eyes 
and  feel  the  rose-petals  of  her  lips  on  my  cheek,  the  witch- 
ery of  her  movements  dances  before  my  eyes. 

I  cannot  live  without  her.  Until  to-day  the  house  was 
desolate  enough — a  ghostly  shell  of  a  habitation.  Hence- 
forward, without  her  my  very  life  will  be  void.  •  My  heart 
has  been  crying  for  her  these  two  weeks  and  I  knew  it  not. 
Now  I  know.  I  could  stand  on  my  balcony  and  lift  up  my 
hands  toward  the  south  where  she  abides,  and  lift  up  my 
voice,  and  cry  for  her  passionately  aloud.  There  is  no  in- 
fernal foolishness  in  the  world  that  I  could  not  commit  to- 
night. The  maddest  dingo  dog,  if  he  could  appreciate  my 
state  of  being,  would  learn  points  in  insanity. 

It  is  two  o'clock.  I  must  go  to  sleep.  I  take  from  my 
shelves  Epictetus,  who  might  be  expected  to  throw  cold 
water  on  the  most  burning  fever  of  the  mind.  I  have  not 
read  far  before  I  come  across  this  consolatory  apophthegm: 
"The  contest  is  unequal  between  a  charming  girl  and  a 


164    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

beginner  in  philosophy."  He  is  mocking  me,  the  cold- 
blooded pedagogue!  I  throw  his  book  across  the  room. 
But  he  is  right.  I  am  but  a  beginner  in  philosophy.  No 
armour  wherein  my  reason  can  invest  me  is  of  avail 
against  Carlotta.  I  have  no  strength  to  smite.  I  am 
helpless. 

But  by  heaven!  am  I  mad  ?  Is  not  this  on  the  contrary 
the  sanest  hour  of  my  existence  ?  I  have  lived  like  an  au- 
tomaton for  forty  years,  and  I  suddenly  awake  to  find  my- 
self a  man.  I  don't  care  whether  I  sleep  or  not.  I  feel 
gloriously,  exultingly  young.  I  am  but  twenty.  As  I  have 
never  lived,  I  have  never  grown  old.  Life  translates  itself 
into  music — a  wild  "Invitation  to  the  Waltz"  by  some 
Archangel  Weber.  I  laugh  out  loud.  Polyphemus,  who 
has  been  regarding  me  with  his  one  bantering  eye  from 
Carlotta's  corner  on  the  sofa,  leaps  to  the  ground  and  gro- 
tesquely curvets  round  the  room  in  a  series  of  impish  hops. 
Heigh,  old  boy?  Do  the  pulsations  of  the  music  throb  hi 
your  veins,  too  ?  Come  along  and  let  us  make  a  night  of 
it.  To  the  Devil  with  sleep.  We'll  go  together  down  to 
the  cellar  and  find  a  bottle  of  Pommery,  and  we  will  drink 
to  Life  and  Youth  and  Love  and  the  Splendour  and  the 
Joy  thereof. 

He  utters  a  little  cry  of  delight  and  frisks  around  me.  In 
the  blackness  of  the  cellar  his  one  eye  gleams  like  a  star  and 
he  purrs  unutterable  rapture.  My  hand  passed  over  his 
back  produces  a  shower  of  sparks.  We  return  up  the  si- 
lent stairs,  I  carry  a  bottle  of  Pommery  and  a  milk-jug 
— for  you  shall  revel,  too,  Polyphemus;  and  as  I  have  for- 
gotten to  bring  a  saucer,  you  shall  drink,  as  no  cat  has 
drunk  before,  from  an  old  precious  platter  bearing  the 
arms  of  the  Estes  of  Ferrara — over  which  Lucrezia  Borgia 
laughed  when  the  world  was  young.  It  is  a  pity  cats  don't 
drink  champagne.  I  would  have  made  you  to-night  as 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeynt      165 

drunk  as  Bacchus.  We  drink,  and  in  the  stillness  the  glou- 
glou  of  his  tongue  forms  a  bass  to  the  elfin  notes  of  the 
Pommery  in  the  soda-water  tumbler. 

Ha!  Twin  purveyors  of  the  milk  of  paradise,  I  wonder 
like  Omar  what  you  buy  one-half  so  precious  as  the  stuff 
you  sell.  Motor-cars  for  Mrs.  Pommery  and  cakes  for  the 
little  Grenos  ?  I  do  not  like  to  regard  you  as  common  hu- 
mans addicted  to  silk  hats  and  umbrellas  and  the  other 
vices  of  respectability.  Ye  are  rather  beneficent  demi- 
gods, Castor  and  Pollux  of  the  vine,  dream  entities  who 
pour  from  the  sunset  lands  of  Nowhere  the  liquid  gold  of 
life's  joyousness. 

A  few  words  scribbled  on  this  telegraph  form  would 
bring  her  here  to-morrow  night.  But  no.  What  is  a  week  ? 
Leaden-footed,  it  is  an  eternity;  but  winged  with  the  dove's 
iris  it  is  a  mere  moment.  Besides,  I  must  accustom  my- 
self to  my  youth.  I  must  investigate  its  follies,  I  must 
learn  the  grammar  of  its  wisdom.  We'll  take  counsel  to- 
gether, Polyphemus,  how  to  turn  these  chambers,  fusty 
with  decayed  thought,  into  a  bridal  bower  radiant  and 
fragrant  with  innumerable  loves.  Let  us  drink  again  to 
her  witchery.  It  is  her  breath  itself  distilled  by  the  Heav- 
enly Twins  that  foams  against  my  lips.  I  would  give  the 
soul  out  of  my  body  to  marry  her,  did  I  say  ?  It  were  like 
buying  her  for  a  farthing.  I  would  pledge  the  soul  of  the 
universe  for  a  kiss. 

I  catch  up  Polyphemus  under  the  arm-pits,  and  his  hind 
legs  dangle.  He  continues  to  lick  his  chops  and  looks  at 
me  sardonically.  He  is  stolid  over  his  cups — which  is 
somewhat  disappointing.  No  matter;  he  can  be  shaken 
into  enthusiasm. 

"I  care  not,"  I  cry,  "for  man  or  devil,  Polyphemus. 

'  Que  Je  suis  grand  ici  !  man  amour  defeu 
Va  de  pair  cette  nuit  avec  celui  de  Dieuf* 


1 66    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

You  may  say  that  it's  wrong,  that  the  first  line  is  a  syllable 
short,  and  that  Triboulet  said  'colere'  instead  of  amour. 
You  always  were  a  dry-as-dust,  pedantic  prig.  But  I  say 
amour — love,  do  you  hear?  I'll  translate,  if  you  like: 

*Now  am  I  mighty,  and  my  love  of  fire 
To-night  goes  even  with  a  god's  desire.' 

Yes;  I'll  be  a  poet  even  though  you  do  scratch  my  wrist 
with  your  hind  claws,  Polyphemus." 

There  1  Empty  your  milk-jug  and  I  will  empty  my  bot- 
tle. The  wine  smells  of  hyacinth.  It  is  a  revelation. 
Her  hair  smells  of  violets,  but  it  is  the  delicate  odour  of 
hyacinth  that  came  from  her  bare  young  arms  when  she 
clasped  them  round  my  neck;  et  sa  peau,  on  dirait  du 
satin.  Carlotta  is  in  the  wine,  Carlotta  with  her  sorcery 
and  her  laughter  and  her  youth,  and  I  drink  Carlotta. 

"  Quo  me  rapis  Bacche  plenum  tuif 

To  such  a  land  of  dreams,  my  one-eyed  friend,  as  never 
before  have  I  visited.  You  yawn?  You  are  bored?  I 
shoot  the  dregs  of  my  glass  into  his  distended  jaws.  He 
springs  away  spitting  and  coughing,  and  I  lie  back  in  my 
chair  convulsed  with  inextinguishable  laughter. 

October  2d. 

I  have  suffered  all  day  from  a  racking  headache,  hav- 
ing awakened  at  six  o'clock  and  crept  shivering  to  bed.  I 
realise  that  Pommery  and  Greno  are  not  demi-gods  at  all, 
but  mere  commercial  purveyors  of  a  form  of  alcohol,  a 
quart  of  which  it  is  injudicious  to  imbibe,  with  a  one- 
eyed  tom-cat  as  boon  companion,  at  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning. 

But  I  am  unrepentant.    If  I  committed  follies  last  night, 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      167 

so  much  the  better.  I  struggle  no  longer  against  the  inevi- 
table, when  the  inevitable  is  the  crown  and  joy  of  earthly 
things.  For  in  sober  truth  I  love  her  infinitely. 

October  6th. 

She  comes  back  to-morrow.  Antoinette  and  I  have  been 
devising  a  welcome.  The  good  soul  has  filled  the  house 
with  flowers,  and,  usurping  Stenson's  functions,  has  pol- 
ished furniture  and  book  backs  and  silver  and  has  hung 
fresh  blinds  and  scrubbed  and  scoured  until  I  am  afraid 
to  walk  about  or  sit  down  lest  I  should  tarnish  the  spotless 
brightness  of  my  surroundings. 

"You  have  forgotten  one  thing,  Antoinette,"  I  re- 
marked, satirically.  "You  have  omitted  to  strew  the 
front  steps  with  rose-leaves." 

"I  would  cover  them  with  my  body  for  the  dear  angel 
to  walk  upon  as  she  entered,"  said  Antoinette. 

"That  would  scarcely  be  rose-leaves,"  I  murmured. 

Antoinette  laughed.  "And  Monsieur  then!  He  is  just 
as  bad.  Has  he  not  put  new  curtains  in  the  room  of  Ma- 
demoiselle, and  a  new  toilette  table,  and  a  set  of  silver 
brushes  and  combs  and  I  know  not  what,  as  for  the  toi- 
lette of  a  princess  ?  And  the  eiderdown  in  pink  satin  ? 
Regardez-moi  fa!  Monsieur  can  no  longer  say  that  it  is  I 
alone  who  spoil  the  dear  angel." 

"Monsieur,"  said  I,  at  a  loss  for  a  better  retort,  "will 
say  whatever  Monsieur  pleases." 

"It  is  indeed  the  right  of  Monsieur,"  said  Antoinette, 
respectfully,  but  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eye  not  devoid  of 
significance. 

Does  the  crafty  old  woman  suspect  ?  Perhaps  my  prep- 
arations for  Carlotta's  return  have  been  inordinate,  for  they 
have  extended  to  the  transformation  of  the  sitting-room 
downstairs  into  a  lady's  boudoir.  I  have  been  busy  this 


1 68     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

happy  week.  But  what  care  I  ?  It  will  not  be  long  before 
I  have  to  say  to  her,  "Antoinette,  there  is  going  to  be  a 
wedding." 

I  must  be  on  my  guard  lest,  in  the  transports  of  her  joy, 
she  clasp  me  to  her  capacious  bosom! 


CHAPTER  XIV 
October  'jlh. 

At  Paddington  I  came  upon  Sebastian  Pasquale  loung- 
ing about  the  arrival  platform.  As  I  had  not  seen  or  heard 
of  him  since  the  end  of  July  I  had  concluded  that  he  was 
wandering  as  usual  over  the  globe.  He  greeted  me  effu- 
sively, holding  out  both  hands  in  his  foreign  fashion. 

"My  dear  old  Ordeyne!  who  would  have  thought  of 
meeting  you  here?  What  wind  blows  you  to  Padding- 
ton?" 

"I  expect  Carlotta  by  the  Plymouth  Express." 

"The  fair  Carlotta?  And  how  is  she?  And  what  is 
she  doing  at  Plymouth?" 

In  the  middle  of  my  explanation  he  pulled  out  his 
watch. 

"By  Jove!  I  must  get  to  the  next  platform  and  catch 
my  train  to  Ealing.  I  was  just  killing  time  about  the  station. 
I  like  seeing  a  train  come  in — the  gleam  and  smoke  and 
rush  and  whirr  of  the  evil-looking  thing — and  the  sudden 
metamorphosis  of  its  sleek  sides  into  mouths  belching 
forth  humanity.  I  think  of  Hades.  This,  by  the  way,  isn't 
a  bad  representation  of  it — the  up-to-date  Hades.  They've 
got  a  railway  bridge  now  across  the  Styx,  and  Charon  has 
a  gold  band  around  his  cap,  and  this  might  be  the  arrival 
platform  of  the  damned  souls." 

"You  forget,"  said  I,  "that  it  is  the  arrival  platform  of 
Carlotta." 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  boyishly. 

"Well,  consider  it  the  Golden  Gate  terminus  of  the 


I  jo    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

'Earth,  Hades  and  Olympus  Railway'  if  you  like.  I'm 
off  on  a  branch  line  to  meet  a  beauteous  duchessa  at  Ealing 
— oh,  an  authentic  one,  I  assure  you." 

"Why  should  I  doubt  it?"  said  I. 

Stenson,  whom  I  had  brought  to  look  after  Carlotta's 
luggage,  came  up  and  touched  his  hat. 

"Train  just  signalled,  sir." 

Pasquale  put  out  his  hand  after  another  glance  at  his 
watch. 

"I  am  sorry  I  cannot  wait  to  greet  the  fair  one.  I'll 
drop  in  soon  and  pay  my  respects.  I  am  only  just  back  in 
London,  you  know.  A  rivederci." 

He  waved  me  farewell  and  hurried  off.  The  arrival  of 
the  train,  the  exuberance  of  Carlotta,  the  joy  of  having  her 
sidle  up  against  me  once  more  in  the  cab  while  she  poured 
out  her  story,  and  the  subsequent  gaiety  of  the  evening 
banished  Pasquale  from  my  mind.  But  it  is  odd  that  I 
should  have  met  him  at  Paddington. 

We  parted  on  the  landing  to  dress  for  dinner.  A  mo- 
ment afterwards  there  was  a  beating  at  my  door.  I  opened 
it  to  behold  Carlotta,  in  a  glow  of  wondering  delight, 
brandishing  a  silver-backed  brush  in  one  hand  and  the 
hand-mirror  in  the  other. 

"  Oh,  my  darling  Seer  Marcous!  For  me  ?  All  that  for 
me?" 

"  No.   It  is  for  Antoinette,"  said  I. 

"Oh-h!" 

She  laughed  and  pulled  me  by  the  arm  into  her  room 
and  shut  the  door. 

"  Oh,  everything  is  beautiful,  beautiful,  and  I  shall  die 
if  I  do  not  kiss  you." 

"You  must  be  kept  alive  at  all  hazards,"  I  laughed; 
and  this  time  I  did  not  reject  her.  But  it  was  a  child  around 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     171 

whom  my  arms  closed.  An  inner  flash,  accompanied  by  a 
spasm  of  pain,  revealed  it,  and  changed  a  passionate  de- 
sire to  gentleness. 

"There,"  said  I,  after  she  had  released  herself  and  flown 
to  open  the  drawers  of  the  new  toilette  table,  where  lay 
some  odds  and  ends  of  jewelry  I  had  purchased  for  her. 
"  You  have  been  saved  from  extinction.  The  next  deadly 
peril  is  hunger.  I  give  you  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

She  came  down  to  dinner  in  a  low-necked  frock,  wear- 
ing the  necklace  and  bangle;  and,  child  that  she  is,  in  her 
hand  she  carried  the  silver-backed  mirror.  I  believe  she 
has  taken  it  to  bed  with  her,  as  a  seven-year-old  does  its 
toy.  She  certainly  kept  it  by  her  all  the  evening  and  ad- 
mired herself  therein  unashamedly  like  the  traditional 
Lady  from  the  Sea.  Once,  desiring  to  show  me  the 
ravishing  beauty  of  a  turquoise  pendant,  she  bent  her  neck 
forward,  as  I  sat,  so  as  to  come  within  reach  of  my  near- 
sighted eyes  (it  is  a  superstition  of  hers  that  I  am  nearly 
blind  without  my  glasses),  and  quite  naturally  slid  onto 
my  knee.  She  has  the  warm  russet  complexion  that  suits 
her  heavy  bronze  hair,  and  there  is  a  glow  beneath  the 
satin  of  her  neck  and  arms.  And  she  is  fragrant — I  rec- 
ognise it  now — of  hyacinths.  The  world  can  hold  noth- 
ing more  alluring  to  the  senses  of  man.  My  fingers  that 
held  the  turquoise  trembled  as  they  chanced  to  touch  her 
— but  she  was  all  unconcerned.  Nay,  further — she  gazed 
into  the  mirror 

"It  makes  me  look  so  white — oh,  there  was  a  girl  at 
Bude  who  had  a  gold  locket — and  it  lay  upon  her  bones — 
you  could  count  them.  I  am  glad  I  have  no  bones.  I  am 
quite  soft — feel." 

She  clasped  my  fingers  and  pressed  their  tips  into  the 
firm  young  flesh  below  her  throat. 

"Yes,"  said  I,  with  some  huskiness  in  my  voice,  "your 


172    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

turquoise  can  sleep  there  very  pleasantly.  See,  I  will  kiss 
it  to  bring  you  good  luck." 

She  cooed  with  pleasure.  "I  don't  think  any  one  kissed 
the  locket  of  the  girl  at  Bude.  She  was  too  thin.  And  too 
old;  she  must  have  been  thirty!  Now,"  she  added,  lifting 
up  the  locket,  "you  will  kiss  the  place,  too,  where  it  is  to 
lie." 

I  looked  for  a  moment  into  her  eyes.  Seeing  me  hesitate, 
they  grew  pathetic. 

"  Oh-h,"  she  said,  reproachfully. 

I  know  I  am  a  fool.  I  know  that  Pasquale  would  have 
hurled  his  sarcasms  at  me.  I  know  that  the  whole  of  her 
deliciousness  was  mine  for  the  taking — mine  for  ever  and 
ever.  If  I  had  loved  her  less  passionately  I  would  have 
kissed  her  young  throat  lightly  with  a  jest.  But  to  have 
kissed  her  thus  with  such  longing  as  mine  behind  my  lips 
would  have  been  an  outrage. 

I  lifted  her  to  her  feet,  and  rose  and  turned  away,  laugh- 
ing unsteadily. 

"No,  my  dear,"  said  I,  "that  would  be — unsuitable." 

The  bathos  of  the  word  made  me  laugh  louder.  Car- 
lotta,  aware  that  a  joke  was  hi  the  air,  joined  in  my  mirth, 
and  her  laughter  rang  fresh. 

"What  is  the  suitable  way  of  kissing?" 

I  took  her  hand  and  saluted  it  in  an  eighteenth  century 
manner. 

"This,"  said  I. 

"Oh-h,"  said  Carlotta.  "That  is  so  dull."  She  caught 
up  Polyphemus  and  buried  her  face  in  his  fur.  "That's 
the  way  I  should  like  to  be  kissed." 

"The  man  you  love,  my  dear,"  said  I,  "will  doubtless 
do  it." 

She  made  a  little  grimace. 

"Oh,  then,  I  shall  have  to  wait  such  a  long  time." 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     173 

"You  needn't,"  said  I,  taking  her  hands  again  and 
speaking  very  seriously.  "  Can't  you  learn  to  love  a  man, 
give  him  your  whole  heart  and  all  your  best  and  sweetest 
thoughts?" 

"I  would  marry  any  nice  man  if  you  gave  me  to  him," 
she  answered. 

"  It  would  not  matter  who  he  was  ?  Any  one  would  do  ?  " 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  Carlotta. 

"And  any  one  wanting  to  marry  you  could  kiss  you  as 
you  kissed  Polyphemus." 

"  Oh-h,  he  would  have  to  be  nice — not  like  Mustapha." 

I  turned  away  with  a  sigh  and  lit  a  cigarette,  while  Car- 
lotta curled  herself  up  on  the  sofa  and  inspected  her  face 
and  necklace  in  the  silver  mirror.  In  a  moment  she  was 
talking  to  the  cat,  who  had  jumped  on  her  lap  and  with 
arched  back  was  rubbing  himself  against  her. 

Soon  the  touch  of  sadness  was  lost  in  the  happy  sight  of 
her  and  the  happy  thought  that  my  house  was  no  longer 
left  to  me  desolate.  We  laughed  away  the  evening. 

But  now,  sitting  alone,  I  feel  empty  of  soul;  like  a  man 
stricken  with  fierce  hunger  who,  expecting  food  in  a  cer- 
tain place,  finds  nothing  but  a  few  delicate  cakes  that  mock 
his  craving. 

October  iqth. 

A  week  has  passed.  I  have  spent  it  chiefly  in  trying  to 
win  her  love. 

Is  she,  after  all,  only  a  child,  and  is  this  love  of  mine  but 
a  monstrous  passion? 

WTiat  is  to  be  done?  Life  is  beginning  to  be  a  torture. 
If  I  send  her  away,  I  shall  eat  my  heart  out.  If  she  stays, 
fuel  is  but  added  to  the  fire.  Her  caressing  ways  will  drive 
me  mad.  To  repulse  her  were  brutal — she  loves  to  be 
fondled;  she  can  scarcely  speak  to  me  without  touching 


174    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

me,  leaning  over  me,  thus  filling  me  with  the  sense  of  her. 
She  treats  me  with  an  affectionate  child's  innocence,  as  if 
I  were  sexless.  My  happiest  time  with  her  iL  spent  in  pub- 
lic places,  restaurants,  and  theatres  where  her  unclouded 
pleasure  is  reflected  in  my  heart. 

I  am  letting  her  take  music  lessons  with  Herr  Stuer,  who 
lives  close  by  in  the  Avenue  Road.  Perhaps  music  may 
help  in  her  development. 

October  2ist. 

To  please  her  I  am  accustoming  myself  to  this  out-of- 
door  life,  which  once  I  despised  so  cordially.  Pasquale 
has  joined  us  two  or  three  times.  Last  night  he  gave  a  din- 
ner in  Carlotta's  honour  at  the  Continental.  The  ladies 
of  the  party  have  asked  her  to  go  to  see  them.  She  must 
have  some  society,  I  suppose,  and  I  must  go  with  her. 
They  belong  to  the  half  smart  set,  eager  to  conceal  be- 
neath a  show  of  ramshness  their  plentiful  lack  of  intellect 
and  their  fundamental  bourgeois  respectability.  In  spite 
of  Pasquale's  brilliance  and  Carlotta's  rapturous  enjoy- 
ment I  sat  mumchance  and  depressed,  out  of  my  element. 

My  work  is  at  a  standstill,  and  Carlotta  is  my  life.  I 
fear  I  am  deteriorating. 

On  Judith,  whom  I  have  seen  once  or  twice  since  Car- 
lotta's return,  I  called  this  afternoon.  She  is  unhappy. 
Although  I  have  not  confessed  to  my  thraldom,  her 
woman's  wit,  I  feel  sure,  has  penetrated  to  the  heart  of 
my  mystery.  There  has  been  no  deep  emotion  in  our  in- 
tercourse. Its  foundation  has  been  real  friendship  sweet- 
ened with  pleasant  sentimentality.  And  yet  jealousy  of 
Carlotta  consumes  her.  Her  amour  propre  is  deeply 
wounded.  She  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  had  played  the  part 
of  a  brute.  But  O  Judith,  my  dear,  I  have  only  been  a 
man.  "  The  same  thing,"  I  fancy  I  hear  her  answer.  But 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     175 

no.  I  have  never  loved  a  woman,  my  dear,  in  all  my  life 
before,  and  as  I  made  no  secret  of  it,  I  am  guiltless  of  any- 
thing like  betrayal.  In  due  season  I  will  tell  you  frankly 
of  the  new  love;  but  how  can  I  tell  you  now ?  How  could 
I  tell  any  human  being? 

I  imagine  myself  as  Panurge,  taking  counsel  with  a  Pan- 
tagruelian  friend.  "  I  am  in  love  with  Carlotta  and  desire 
to  marry  her."  "Then  marry  her,"  says  Pantagruel. 
"But  she  does  not  love  me."  "Then  don't  marry,"  says 
Pantagruel.  "  But  nay,"  urges  poor  Panurge,  "  she  would 
marry  me  according  to  any  rite,  civil  or  ecclesiastical, 
to-morrow."  "  M ariez-vous  doncques  de  par  dieu"  re- 
plies Pantagruel.  "  But  I  should  be  a  villain  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  her  innocence  and  submission."  "Then  don't 
marry."  "But  I  can't  live  without  her,"  says  Panurge, 
desperately.  "  I  am  as  a  man  bewitched.  If  I  don't  marry 
her  I  shall  waste  away  with  longing."  "Then  marry  her 
in  God's  name!"  says  Pantagruel.  And  I  am  no  wiser  by 
his  counsel,  and  I  have  paraded  the  complication  of  my 
folly  before  mocking  eyes. 

October  2$d. 

I  perceive  that  the  young  man  of  the  idiot  metaphor 
was  gifted  with  piercing  acumen.  Beneath  the  Jaques- 
ian  melancholy  of  my  temperament  he  diagnosed  the 
potentiality  of  canine  rabidness.  No  rational  being  is  af- 
flicted with  this  grotesque  concentration  of  idea,  this  fierce 
hot  fury  waxing  in  intensity  day  by  day. 

I  must  consult  a  brain  specialist 

October  2$th. 

I  went  to  Judith  this  afternoon,  more  to  prove  the  loy- 
alty of  my  friendship  than  to  seek  comfort  from  her  so- 
ciety. Over  tea  we  discussed  the  weather  and  books  and 


176     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

her  statistical  work.  It  was  dull,  but  unembarrassing. 
The  grey  twilight  crept  into  the  room  and  there  was  a 
pause  in  our  talk.  She  broke  it  by  asking,  without  look- 
ing at  me : 

"When  are  we  to  have  an  evening  together  again?" 

"Whenever  you  like,  my  dear  Judith." 

"To-morrow?" 

"  I  am  afraid  not  to-morrow,"  said  I. 

"Are  you  doing  anything  so  very  particular?" 

"I  have  arranged  to  take  Carlotta  to  the  Empire." 

"  Oh,"  said  Judith  shortly,  and  I  was  left  uncomfortable 
for  another  spell  of  silence. 

"  It  would  be  very  kind,  Marcus,  to  ask  me  to  accom- 
pany you,"  she  said  at  last. 

"Carlotta  and  myself?" 

"Why  not?" 

"My  question  arose  from  the  stupidity  of  surprise," 
said  I.  "I  thought  you  disliked  Carlotta." 

"  By  no  means.  I  should  be  glad  to  make  her  further 
acquaintance.  Any  one  that  interests  you  must  also  be 
interesting  to  me." 

"In  that  case,"  said  I,  "your  coming  will  give  us  both 
the  greatest  possible  pleasure." 

"I  haven't  had  a  merry  evening  for  ever  so  long." 

"We  will  dine  somewhere  first  and  have  supper  after- 
wards. The  whole  gamut  of  merriment.  Toute  la  lyre. 
And  you  shall  have,"  I  added,  "some  of  your  favourite 
Veuve  Cliquot." 

"It  will  be  charming,"  said  Judith,  politely. 

In  fact,  politeness  has  been  the  dominant  note  of  her 
attitude  to-day,  a  sober  restraint  of  manner  such  as  she 
would  adopt  when  rather  tired  towards  an  ordinary  ac- 
quaintance. Has  she  reconciled  herself  to  the  inevitable 
and  taken  this  Empire  frolic  as  a  graceful  method  of  show- 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     177 

ing  it  ?  I  should  like  to  believe  so,  but  the  course  is  scarcely 
consistent  with  that  motor  of  illogic  which  she  is  pleased 
to  call  her  temperament.  I  am  puzzled. 

Her  smile  as  we  parted  sent  a  chill  through  me,  being  the 
smile  of  a  mask  instead  of  a  woman's  face;  and  it  was  not 
the  face  of  Judith.  I  don't  anticipate  much  merriment  to- 
morrow evening. 

At  Carlotta's  suggestion,  I  have  sent  a  line  to  Pasquale 
to  ask  him  to  join  us.  His  gay  wit  will  lend  to  the  enter- 
tainment a  specious  air  of  revelry  which  Carlotta  will  take 
as  genuine. 

I  have  often  thought  lately  of  the  hopeless  passion  of 
Alfonso  the  Magnanimous  of  Naples,  as  set  forth  by  Pope 
Pius  II  in  his  Commentaries;  for  I  am  beginning  to  take  a 
morbid  interest  in  the  unhappy  love  affairs  of  other  men 
and  to  institute  comparisons.  If  they  have  lived  through 
the  torment,  why  should  not  I?  But  Alfonso  sighed  for 
Lucrezia  d'Alagna,  a  beautiful  chaste  statue  of  ice  who 
loved  him;  whereas  I  crave  the  warm-blooded  thing  that 
is  mine  for  the  taking,  but  no  more  loves  me  than  she  loves 
the  policeman  who  salutes  her  on  his  beat.  I  cannot  take 
her.  Something  stronger  than  my  passion  opposes  an 
adamantine  barrier.  I  love  her  with  my  soul  as  well  as  with 
my  body,  and  my  soul  cries  out  for  the  soul  that  the  Al- 
mighty forgot  when  endowing  her  with  entity. 

This  evening  a  letter  from  the  Editor  of  The  Quarterly 
Review.  It  would  give  him  great  pleasure  if  I  would  con- 
tribute a  Renaissance  article,  taking  as  my  text  a  German, 
a  Russian,  and  an  English  attempt  to  whitewash  the  Borgia 
family.  Six  months  ago  the  compliment  would  have  filled 
me  with  gratification.  To-day  what  to  me  are  the  white- 
washed Borgias  or  the  solemn  denizens  of  the  Athenaeum 

12 


178     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

reading-room  who  will  slumber  over  my  account  of  the 
blameless  poisonings  of  this  amiable  family?  They  are 
vanity  and  vexation  of  a  spirit  already  sore  at  ease. 

As  I  write  the  door  creaks.  I  look  up.  Behold  Carlotta 
in  hastily  slipped  on  dressing-gown,  open  in  front,  her  hair 
streaming  loose  to  her  waist,  her  bare  feet  flashing  pink 
beneath  her  night-dress. 

"Oh,  Seer  Marcous,  darling,  I  am  so  frightened!" 

She  ran  forward  and  caught  the  lappels  of  my  coat  as  I 
rose  from  my  chair. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"There  is  a  mouse  in  my  bed." 

Polyphemus  saved  the  situation  by  jumping  from  the 
sofa  and  rubbing  his  back  against  her  feet. 

"Take  the  cat  and  tell  him  to  kill  it,"  said  I,  "and  go 
back  to  bed  at  once." 

I  must  have  spoken  roughly,  for  she  regarded  me  with 
her  great  eyes  full  of  innocent  reproach. 

"There,  take  up  the  cat  and  go,"  I  repeated.  "You 
mustn't  come  down  here  looking  like  that." 

"I  thought  I  looked  very  pretty,"  said  Carlotta,  mov- 
ing a  step  nearer. 

I  sat  down  at  my  writing-table  and  fixed  my  eyes  on  my 
paper. 

"You  are  like  a  Houri  that  has  been  sent  away  from 
Paradise  for  misbehaviour,"  I  said. 

She  laughed  her  curious  cooing  laugh. 

"Haul  Seer  Marcous  is  shocked!"  And  she  ran 
away,  rubbing  Polyphemus's  nose  against  her  face. 

I  wonder  if  the  Devil,  having  grown  infirm,  is  mixing  up 
his  centuries  and  mistaking  me  for  a  mediaeval  saint? 
Paphnutius  for  instance,  who  was  visited  by  such  a  seduc- 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      179 

tress.  What  is  the  legend  ?  To  get  rid  of  her  he  burns  off 
his  hand,  whereupon  she  falls  dead.  He  prays  and  she  re- 
turns to  life  and  becomes  a  nun.  No,  Messer  Diavolo,  I 
am  not  Paphnutius.  I  will  not  maim  myself,  nor  do  I  want 
Carlotta  to  fall  dead;  and  I  cannot  pray  and  effect  a  piet- 
istic  resurrection.  I  am  simply  a  fool  of  a  modern  man 
tempted  out  of  his  wits,  who  scarce  knows  what  it  is  that 
he  speaks  or  writes. 

I  am  not  superstitious,  but  I  feel  myself  to-night  on  the 
brink  of  some  disaster.  I  walk  restlessly  about  the  room. 
On  the  mantel-piece  are  three  photographs  in  silver 
frames:  Judith,  Carlotta,  Pasquale.  That  which  is  of 
mockery  in  the  spirit  of  each  seems  to-night  to  be  hover- 
ing round  the  portraits  and  to  be  making  sport  of  me.  An 
autumn  gale  is  howling  among  the  trees  outside,  like  a  le- 
gion of  lost  souls.  Listen.  Messer  Diavolo  himself  might 
be  riding  by  with  a  whoop  of  derision. 


CHAPTER  XV 
October  26th. 

I  knew  something  would  happen.  Messer  Diavolo  does 
not  ride  whooping  to  no  purpose  by  the  windows  of  peo- 
ple whom,  he  desires  to  torment;  nor  does  he  inspire  pho- 
tographs for  nothing  with  an  active  spirit  of  mockery. 

We  dined  at  the  Trocadero.  Carlotta  loves  the  band 
and  the  buzz  of  Babel  and  the  heavy  scents  and  the  clatter 
and  the  tumult  and  the  glare  of  light;  otherwise  I  should 
have  chosen  a  discreeter  hostelry  where  the  footfalls  of  the 
waiting-men  were  noiseless  and  the  walls  in  quiet  shadow, 
where  there  was  nothing  but  the  mellow  talk  of  friends  to 
distract  the  mind  from  the  consideration  of  exquisite  fla- 
vours. But  in  these  palaces  of  clashing  splendour,  the 
stunned  brain  fails  to  receive  impressions  from  the  glosso- 
pharyngeal  nerve,  and  one  eats  unthinkingly  like  a  dog. 
But  this  matters  little  to  Carlotta.  Perhaps  when  I  was 
nineteen  it  mattered  little  to  me.  And  to-night,  also,  it 
mattered  little,  for  my  mind  was  preoccupied  and  a  dinner 
with  Lucullus  would  have  been  savourless. 

If  the  Psalmist  cried,  "  What  is  man  that  Thou  art  mind- 
ful of  him?"  what  cry  had  he  at  the  back  of  his  head  to 
utter  concerning  woman  ?  Did  he  leave  her  to  be  implicit- 
ly dealt  with  by  Charles  Darwin  in  his  "Theory  of  Sexual 
Selection"?  Or  did  he  in  the  good  old  oriental  way  re- 
gard her  as  unimportant  in  the  eyes  of  the  Deity  ?  If  the 
latter,  he  was  a  purblind  prophet  and  missed  the  very  fount 
of  human  tears. 

When  I  looked  at  Judith,  T  was  smitten  with  a  great 

I&O 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      181 

pain.  She  had  not  looked  so  young,  so  fresh,  so  fragilely 
fair  for  many  months.  She  wore  a  dress  of  corn-flower  blue 
that  deepened  the  violet  of  her  eyes.  In  the  mass  of  flax- 
hued  thistle-down  that  is  her  hair  a  blue  argus  butterfly 
completed  the  chord  of  colour.  There  was  the  faintest 
tinge  of  pink  in  her  cheek  applied  with  delicate  art.  Her 
dress  seemed  made  of  unsubstantial  dream  stuff — I  be- 
lieve they  call  it  chiffon — and  it  covered  her  bosom  and 
arms  like  the  spray  of  a  fairy  sea.  She  had  the  air  of  an 
impalpable  Undine,  a  creation  of  sea-foam  and  sea-flower; 
an  exquisite  suggestion  of  the  ethereal  which  floated  beauty, 
as  it  were,  into  her  face.  I  know  little  of  women,  save 
what  these  past  few  grievous  months  have  taught  me;  but 
I  know  that  hours  of  anxious  thought  and  desperate  hope 
lay  behind  this  effect  of  fragile  loveliness.  The  wit  of 
woman  could  not  have  rendered  a  woman's  body  a  greater 
contrast  to  that  of  her  rival;  and  with  infinite  subtlety  she 
had  imbued  the  contrast  with  the  deeper  significance  of 
rare  and  spiritual  things.  I  know  this  was  so.  I  know  it 
was  a  challenge,  a  defiance,  an  ordeal  by  combat;  and  the 
knowledge  hurt  me,  so  that  I  felt  like  a  Dathan  or  Abiram 
who  had  laid  hand  on  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant  (for  the 
soul  of  a  woman,  by  heaven!  is  a  holy  thing),  and  I  wished 
that  the  earth  could  open  and  swallow  me  up. 

We  sat  down  to  table  in  the  middle  of  the  great  room— 
a  quiet  corner  on  the  balcony  away  from  the  band  is  not 
to  Carlotta's  taste — like  any  conventional  party  of  four, 
and  at  first  talked  of  indifferent  matters.  Conciergerie 
dinner-parties  in  the  Terror  always  began  with  a  discus- 
sion of  the  latest  cure  for  megrims,  or  the  most  fashion- 
able cut  of  a  panier.  Presently  Pasquale  who  had  been 
talking  travel  with  Judith  appealed  to  me. 

"What  year  was  it,  Ordeyne,  that  I  came  home  from 
Abyssinia?" 


1 82     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"  I  forget,"  said  I.  "  I  only  remember  you  presenting  me 
with  that  hideous  thing  hanging  in  my  passage,  which  you 
called  a  dulcimer." 

"Gage  d?  amour?"  smiled  Judith. 

Pasquale  laughed  and  twirled  his  swaggering  moustache. 

"I  did  get  it  from  a  damsel,  and  that  is  why  I  called  it 
a  dulcimer,  but  she  didn't  sing  of  Mount  Abora.  I 
wish  I  could  remember  the  year." 

"I  think  it  was  in  1894,"  said  Judith  quietly. 

Pasquale,  who  had  been  completely  unaware  of  Ju- 
dith's existence  until  half  an  hour  before,  could  not  re- 
press a  stare  of  polite  surprise. 

"I  believe  you  are  right.  In  fact,  you  are.  But  how 
can  you  tell?" 

"Through  the  kindness  of  Sir  Marcus,"  replied  Judith 
graciously,  "you  are  a  very  old  acquaintance.  I  could 
write  you  off-hand  a  nice  little  obituary  notice  with  all  the. 
adventures — well,  I  will  not  say  complete — but  with  all 
the  dates  accurate,  I  assure  you.  I  have  a  head  for  that 
sort  of  thing." 

"Yes,"  I  cried,  desiring  to  turn  the  conversation. 
"Don't  tell  Mrs.  Mainwaring  anything  you  wish  forgot- 
ten. Facts  are  her  passion.  She  writes  wonderful  articles 
full  of  figures  that  make  your  head  spin,  and  publishes  them 
in  the  popular  magazines  over  the  signature  of  Willoughby 
the  statistician.  Allow  me  to  present  to  you  a  statistical 
ghost." 

But  Pasquale's  subtle  Italian  brain  was  paying  but  half 
attention  to  me.  I  could  read  his  inferences  from  Judith's 
observations,  and  I  could  tell  what  she  wanted  him  to  in- 
fer. I  seem  to  have  worn  my  sensory  system  outside  in- 
stead of  inside  my  skin  this  evening. 

"Ordeyne,"  said  he,  "you  are  a  pig,  and  the  great- 
grandfather of  pigs — " 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     183 

"Houl"  cried  Carlotta,  seizing  on  an  intelligible  point 
of  the  conversation. 

"Why  didn't  you  present  me  to  Mrs.  Mainwaring  in 
1894?  I  declare  I  have  thought  myself  allied  to  that  man 
for  twenty  years  in  bonds  of  the  most  intimate  friendship, 
and  he  has  never  so  much  as  mentioned  you  to  me." 

"Seer  Marcous  says  that  Pasquale  is  a  bad  lot,"  re- 
marked Carlotta,  with  an  air  of  sapience,  after  a  sip  of 
orangeade,  a  revolting  beverage  which  she  loves  to  drink 
at  her  meals. 

Pasquale  threw  back  his  handsome  head  and  laughed 
again  like  the  chartered  libertine  he  is,  and  Judith  smiled. 

" '  Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes,  etc.,' "  said  I,  apologet- 
ically. 

"In  all  seriousness,"  said  Pasquale  to  Judith,  "I  had 
no  idea  that  any  one  was  such  a  close  friend  of  Ordeyne's." 

Judith  turned  to  me,  with  a  graceful  gesture  of  her 
shoulders. 

"I  think  we  have  been  close  friends,  Marcus?" 

"Oh,  ye-es,"  broke  in  Carlotta.  "Mrs.  Mainwaring 
has  the  picture  of  Seer  Marcous  in  her  bedroom,  and  there 
is  the  picture  of  Mrs.  Mainwaring  in  our  drawing-room. 
You  have  not  seen  it  ?  But  yes.  You  have  not  recognised 
it,  Pasquale?  Mrs.  Mainwaring  is  so  pretty  to-night. 
Much  prettier  than  the  photograph.  Yes,  you  are  so 
pretty.  I  would  like  to  put  you  on  the  mantel-piece  as  an 
ornament  instead  of  the  picture." 

"May  I  be  allowed  to  endorse  Carlotta's  sentiment  of 
appreciation?"  I  said,  with  a  view  to  covering  her  indis- 
cretion, for  I  saw  a  flash  of  conjecture  in  Pasquale's  eyes 
and  a  sudden  spot  of  real  red  in  Judith's  cheeks.  She  had 
evidently  desired  to  suggest  an  old  claim  on  my  regard, 
but  to  have  it  based  on  such  intimate  details  as  the  enshrin- 
ing of  my  photograph  was  not  to  her  fancy. 


184    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"I  am  vastly  beholden  to  you  both,"  said  Judith,  who 
has  a  graceful  way  of  receiving  compliments.  "But," 
turning  to  Pasquale,  "we  have  travelled  far  from  Abys- 
sinia." 

"To  Sir  Marcus's  mantel-piece.  Suppose  we  stay 
there." 

"There  is  you  and  me  and  Mrs.  Mainwaring,"  said  the 
literal  Carlotta,  "and  I  am  the  big  one  in  the  middle.  It 
was  made  big — big,"  she  added,  extending  her  arms  in 
her  exaggerating  way.  "  I  was  wearing  this  dress." 

"  Mr.  Pasquale  and  I  will  have  to  enlarge  our  frames, 
Marcus,"  said  Judith,  "or  we  shall  be  jealous.  We  shall 
have  to  make  common  cause  together." 

"We  will  declare  an  inoffensive  alliance,"  laughed  Pas- 
quale. 

"  Offensive  if  you  like,"  said  Judith. 

It  may  have  been  some  effect  of  the  glitter  of  lights, 
but  I  vow  I  saw  a  swift  interchange  of  glances.  Pasquale 
immediately  turned  to  Carlotta  with  a  jesting  -emark,  and 
Judith  engaged  me  in  conversation  on  our  old  days  in 
Rome.  Suddenly  she  swerved  from  the  topic,  and  lean- 
ing forward,  indicated  our  companions  with  an  impercepti- 
ble motion  of  her  head. 

"Don't  you  think,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "they  are 
a  well-matched  pair?  Both  young  and  picturesque;  it 
would  solve  many  things." 

I  glanced  round.  Carlotta,  elbow  on  the  table  and  chin 
in  hand,  was  looking  deep  into  Pasquale's  eyes,  just  as  she 
has  looked  into  mine.  Her  lips  had  the  half-sensuous, 
half-childish  pout  provocative  of  kisses. 

"  Do,  and  I  will  love  you,"  I  heard  her  say. 

Oh,  those  dove-notes,  those  melting  eyes,  those  lips! 
Oh,  the  horrible  fool  passion  that  burns  out  my  soul  and 
brain  and  reduces  me  to  rave  like  a  lovelorn  early  Victo- 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      185 

rian  tailor!  Which  was  worse  I  know  not — the  spasm  of 
jealousy  or  the  spasm  of  self-contempt  that  followed  it- 
At  that  moment  the  music  ceased  suddenly  on  a  loud 
crashing  chord. 

The  moment  seemed  to  be  magnetic  to  all  but  Carlotta, 
who  was  enjoying  herself  prodigiously.  Our  three  per- 
sonalities appeared  to  vibrate  rudely  one  against  the  other. 
I  was  conscious  that  Judith  read  me,  that  Pasquale  read 
Judith,  that  again  something  telegraphic  passed  between 
them.  The  waiter  offered  me  partridge.  Pasquale  quickly 
turned  from  Carlotta  to  his  left-hand  neighbour. 

"I  think  we  ought  to  drink  Faust's  health,  don't 
you?" 

I  started.    Had  I  not  myself  traced  the  analogy? 

"Faust?"  queried  Judith  at  a  loss. 

"  Our  friend  Faust  opposite  me,"  said  Pasquale,  raising 
his  champagne  glass.  "Hasn't  he  been  transformed  from 
the  lean  and  elderly  bookworm  into  the  gay,  young  gallant 
about  the  town  ?  Once  one  could  scarcely  drag  him  from 
his  cell  to  the  quietest  of  dinners,  and  now — has  he  told  you 
of  his  dissipations  this  past  month,  Mrs.  Mainwaring?" 

Judith  smiled.    "  Have  you  been  Mephistopheles  ?  " 

"What  is  Mephistopheles?"  asked  Carlotta. 

"The  devil,"  said  Pasquale,  "who  made  Sir  Marcus 
young  again." 

"Oh,  that's  me,"  cried  Carlotta,  clapping  her  hands. 
"He  does  not  read  in  big  books  any  longer.  Oh,  I  was  so 
frightened  when  I  first  came."  (I  must  say  she  hid  her 
terrors  pretty  effectually.)  "He  was  so  wise,  and  always 
reading  and  writing,  and  I  thought  he  was  fifty.  And  now 
he  is  not  wise  at  ail,  and  he  said  two,  three  days  ago  I  had 
made  him  twenty-five." 

"If  you  go  on  at  the  rate  you  have  begun,  my  dear," 
Judith  remarked  in  her  most  charming  manner,  "in  an- 


1 86    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

other  year  you  will  have  brought  him  down  to  long  clothes 
and  a  feeding-bottle." 

Carlotta  thought  this  very  funny  and  laughed  joyously. 
I  laughed  too,  out  of  courtesy,  at  Judith's  bitter  sarcasm, 
and  turned  the  conversation,  but  Pasquale  was  not  to  be 
baulked  of  his  toast. 

"  Here's  to  our  dear  friend  Faust;  may  he  grow  younger 
and  younger  every  day." 

We  clinked  glasses.  Judith  sighed  when  the  perform- 
ance was  concluded. 

"That  is  one  of  the  many  advantages  of  being  a  man. 
If  you  do  sell  your  soul  to  the  devil  you  can  see  that  you 
get  proper  payment.  A  woman  is  paid  in  promissory  notes, 
which  are  dishonoured  when  they  fall  due." 

I  contested  the  proposition.  The  irony  of  this  peculiarly 
painful  revel  lay  in  the  air  of  gaiety  it  seemed  necessary  to 
maintain.  A  miserable  business  is  civilisation! 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  woman  getting  youth  out  of 
such  a  bargain?"  she  retorted  with  some  vehemence. 

"As  women  systematically  underpay  cabmen,"  said  I, 
"so  do  they  try  to  underpay  the  devil;  and  he  is  one  too 
many  for  them." 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  Pasquale,  "that  the  old  days  of 
shrewd  bargains  are  over.  There  is  a  glut  in  the  soul- 
market  and  they  only  fetch  the  price  of  old  bones." 

"He  is  talking  foolish  things  that  I  do  not  understand," 
said  Carlotta,  putting  her  hand  on  my  arm. 

"It  is  called  sham  cynicism,  my  dear,"  said  I,  "and  we 
all  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  ourselves." 

"What  do  you  like  best  to  talk  about?"  Judith  asked 
sweetly. 

"Myself.    And  so  does  everybody,"  replied  Carlotta. 

We  laughed,  and  for  a  time  talk  ceased  to  be  allusive. 
But  later,  over  our  coffee,  while  the  band  was  playing 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordey^e     187 

loudly  some  new  American  march,  and  Carlotta  and  Pas- 
quale  were  laughing  together,  Judith  drew  near  me. 

"You  did  not  answer  my  question  about  those  two, 
Marcus." 

My  fingers  trembled  as  I  lit  a  fresh  cigarette. 

"He  is  not  a  man  to  whom  any  woman's  destiny  should 
be  entrusted." 

"And  is  she  a  woman  on  whom  a  man  should  stake  his 
life's  happiness?" 

"  God  knows,"  said  I,  setting  my  teeth. 

It  was  not  an  enjoyable  dinner-party.  I  longed  for  the 
evening  to  be  over,  to  have  Carlotta  safe  back  with  me  at 
home.  I  felt  a  curious  dread  of  the  Empire. 

We  arrived  there  towards  the  end  of  the  first  ballet. 
Carlotta,  as  soon  as  she  had  taken  her  seat,  leaned  both 
elbows  on  the  front  of  the  box  and  surrendered  her  senses 
to  the  stage.  Pasquale  talked  to  Judith.  Wishing  for  a 
few  moments  alone  I  left  the  box  and  sauntered  mood- 
ily along  the  promenade  behind  the  First  Circle.  The 
occupants  were  either  leaning  over  the  partitions  and 
watching  the  spectacle  or  sitting  with  drink  before  them 
at  the  little  marble  tables  at  the  back.  The  gaud}', 
gilded,  tobacco-smoke  and  humanity-filled  theatre  seemed 
to  be  unreal,  the  stage  but  a  phantom  cloud  effect.  I 
wondered  why  I,  a  creature  from  the  concrete  world,  was 
there.  I  had  an  insane  impulse  to  fly  from  it  all,  to  go  out 
into  the  streets,  and  wander,  wander  for  ever,  away  from 
the  world.  I  was  walking  along  the  promenade,  lost  in 
this  lunacy,  when  I  stumbled  against  a  fellow-promena- 
der  and  the  shock  brought  me  to  my  senses.  It  was  an 
elderly,  obese  Oriental  wearing  a  red  fez.  He  had  a  long 
nose  and  small,  crafty  eyes,  and  was  deeply  pitted  with 
small-pox.  I  made  profuse  apologies  and  he  accepted 
them  with  suavity.  It  then  occurring  to  me  that  I  was  be- 


1 88     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

having  in  a  discourteous  and  abjectly  absurd  manner,  I 
made  my  way  back  to  the  box.  I  drew  a  chair  to  Judith's 
side. 

"You  are  giving  me  a  captivating  evening,"  she  said, 
with  a  smile. 

"Whom  are  you  captivating?"  I  asked,  idly  jesting. 
«' Pasquale?" 

"You  are  cruel,"  whispered  Judith,  with  a  flicker  of  her 
eyelids. 

I  flushed,  ashamed,  not  having  weighed  the  significance 
of  my  words.  All  I  could  say  was:  " I  beg  your  pardon," 
whereat  Judith  laughed  mirthlessly.  I  relapsed  into  si- 
lence. Turn  followed  turn  on  the  stage.  While  the  curtain 
was  lowered  Carlotta  sank  back  with  a  little  sigh  of  enjoy- 
ment, and  nodded  brightly  at  me. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  she  said,  turning  to  me,  at  a  fresh 
fall  of  the  curtain,  "when  you  brought  me  first?  I  said  I 
should  like  to  live  here.  Wasn't  I  silly?" 

She  turned  again,  then  suddenly  rose  to  her  feet  and 
staggered  back  to  the  back  of  the  box,  pointing  outward, 
with  an  expression  of  wild  terror  on  her  face. 

"Hamdi — he's  down  there — he  saw  me." 

I  sprang  to  her  assistance  and  put  my  arm  around  her. 

"Nonsense,  dear,"  said  I. 

But  Pasquale,  looking  around  the  house,  cried: 

"  By  Jove!  she's  right.  I  would  recognise  the  old  vil- 
lain a  thousand  years  hence  in  Tartarus.  There  he  is." 

I  left  Carlotta,  and  the  first  person  my  eyes  rested  upon 
in  the  stalls  was  my  obese  but  suave  Oriental,  regarding 
the  box  with  an  impassive  countenance. 

"That's  Hamdi  Effendi,  all  right,"  said  Pasquale. 

Carlotta  clutched  my  arms  as  I  joined  her  at  the  back 
of  the  box. 

"Oh,  take  me  away,  Seer  Marcous,  take  me  away," 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     189 

she  moaned  piteously.  My  poor  child  was  white  and 
shaken  with  fear.  I  again  put  my  arm  round  her. 

"No  harm  can  happen  to  you,  dear,"  I  said,  soothingly. 

"  Oh,  darling  Seer  Marcous,  take  me  home,"  cried  Car- 
lotta. 

"  Very  well,"  said  I.  I  helped  her  on  with  her  wrap,  and 
apologising  to  the  two  others,  begged  them  to  remain. 

"We'll  all  go  together,"  said  Judith  quietly. 

"And  form  a  body-guard,"  laughed  Pasquale. 

Carlotta  clinging  to  my  arm  we  left  the  box  and  slipped 
through  the  promenade  and  down  the  stairs. 

Hamdi  Effendi,  having  anticipated  our  intention,  cut  off 
our  retreat  in  the  vestibule.  Carlotta  shrank  nearer  to  me. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Monsieur,  but  may  I  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  a  few  words  with  you  about  this  young  lady?"  said 
he  in  the  urbanest  manner  and  the  most  execrable  French. 

"  I  hardly  see  the  necessity,"  said  I. 

"Pardon  me,  but  this  young  lady  is  a  Turkish  sub- 
ject and  my  daughter.  My  name  is  Hamdi  Effendi,  Pre- 
fect of  Police  at  Aleppo,  and  my  address  in  London  is  the 
Hotel  Metropole." 

"I  am  charmed  to  make  your  acquaintance,"  said  I. 
"  I  have  often  heard  of  you  from  Mademoiselle — but  I  be- 
lieve both  her  father  and  mother  were  English,  so  she  is 
neither  your  daughter  nor  a  Turkish  subject." 

"Ah,  that  we  will  see,"  rejoined  the  polite  Oriental. 
He  addressed  some  words  rapidly  in  Turkish  to  Carlotta, 
who  shudderingly  replied  in  the  same  language. 

"Mademoiselle  unfortunately  does  not  consent  to  ac- 
company me,"  he  interpreted  with  a  smile.  "So  I  am 
afraid  I  will  have  to  take  her  back  without  her  consent." 

"If  you  do,  Hamdi  Effendi,"  said  Pasquale  in  a  light 
tone  of  conversation,  but  with  the  ugliest  snarl  of  the  lips 
that  I  have  ever  beheld,  "I  shall  most  certainly  kill  you." 


190     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

Hamdi  turned  to  him  with  a  polite  bow. 

"Ah,  it  is  Monsieur  Pasquale.  I  thought  I  recognised 
you." 

"You  have  every  reason  to  do  so,"  said  Pasquale. 

"I  saved  you  from  prison." 

"You  accepted  a  bribe." 

"For  heaven's  sake,"  cried  Judith,  "go  on  speaking  in 
low  voices,  or  we  shall  have  a  scene  here." 

One  or  two  idlers  hung  near  with  an  air  of  curiosity  and 
the  huge  be-uniformed  commissionaire  watched  us  with 
an  uncertain  eye.  I  kept  a  tight  hold  of  Carlotta  and  drew 
her  more  behind  the  screen  of  a  palm  near  which  we  hap- 
pened to  stand. 

"Madame  is  right,"  said  Hamdi.  "We  can  discuss  this 
little  affair  like  gentlemen." 

"Then,  in  the  most  gentlemanly  way  in  the  world,"  said 
Pasquale,  "I  swear  to  you  that  if  you  touch  this  young 
lady,  I  will  kill  you." 

"It  appears  to  be  Monsieur,"  said  the  obese  Turk  with 
a  graceful  wave  of  the  hand  in  my  direction,  "and  not 
you,  who  has  robbed  my  home  of  its  treasure,  unless," 
he  added,  and  I  shall  always  remember  the  hideous  leer 
of  that  pulpy-nosed  and  small-pox  pitted  face,  "unless 
Monsieur  has  relieved  you  of  your  responsibilities." 

For  a  moment  I  was  speechless.  Pasquale  put  himself 
in  front  of  me. 

"Steady  on,  Ordeyne." 

"Sir,"  said  I,  "I  found  this  young  lady  destitute  in  the 
streets  of  London.  She  is  my  wife  and  therefore  a  British 
subject;  so  you  can  take  yourself  and  your  infamous  in- 
sinuations to  the  devil,  and  the  quicker  the  better." 

"  Or  there'll  be  two  of  us  engaged  hi  the  killing,"  said 
Pasquale. 

Hamdi  again  exchanged  a  few  sentences  in  Turkish  with 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne       191 

Carlotta,  and  then  smiled  upon  us  with  the  same  unruf- 
fled suavity. 

"  Au  revoir,  Mesdames  et  Messieurs."  With  a  courteous 
salute  he  shuffled  back  towards  the  stall-entrance. 

The  tension  over,  Carlotta  broke  from  me  and  clutched 
Pasquale  by  the  arm. 

"Oh,  kill  him,  kill  him,  kill  him!"  she  cried  in  a  pas- 
sionate whisper. 

He  freed  himself  gently  and  took  out  a  cigarette  case. 

"  Scarcely  necessary.  He'll  soon  die."  And  turning  to 
me  he  added:  "Not  a  sound  organ  in  his  body.  Besides, 
it  seems  to  me  that  if  there  is  any  murdering  to  be  done,  it's 
the  business  of  Sir  Marcus." 

"There  is  going  to  be  no  murdering,"  said  I,  profoundly 
disgusted,  "and  don't  talk  in  that  revolting  way  about  the 
wretched  man  dying." 

I  regained  possession  of  Carlotta  who,  seeing  that  I  was 
angry,  cast  a  scared  glance  at  me,  and  became  docile  as 
suddenly  as  she  had  grown  passionate.  I  turned  to  Judith. 

"Will  you  ever  forgive  me — "  I  began. 

But  the  sight  of  her  face  froze  me.  It  was  white  and 
hard  and  haggard,  and  the  lips  were  drawn  into  a  thin  line, 
and  the  delicate  colour  she  had  put.  upon  her  cheeks  stood 
out  in  ghastly  contrast.  Her  dress,  like  the  foam  of  a  sum- 
mer sea,  mocked  the  winter  in  her  face. 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,"  she  said,  smiling  icily. 
"I  came  for  a  variety  entertainment  and  I  have  not  been 
disappointed.  Good-bye.  Perhaps  Mr.  Pasquale  will  be 
so  kind  as  to  put  me  into  a  cab." 

"I  will  drive  you  home,  if  you  will  allow  me,"  said  Pas- 
quale. 

We  separated,  shaking  hands  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened, as  perfunctorily  as  if  we  had  been  the  most  distant 
of  acquaintances. 


292    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

On  our  way  back  we  spoke  very  little.  Carlotta  nestled 
close  against  me,  seeking  the  shelter  of  my  arm.  She  cried, 
I  don't  know  why,  but  it  seemed  to  afford  comfort.  I 
kissed  her  lips  and  her  hair. 

At  home,  I  drew  the  sofa  near  the  fire — it  has  been  a 
raw  night  and  she  feels  the  cold  like  a  tropical  plant — and 
sat  down  by  her  side. 

"  Did  you  hear  what  I  said  to  Hamdi  Effendi — that  you 
were  my  wife?" 

"But  that  was  only  a  lie,"  she  answered  in  her  plain 
idiom. 

My  petting  and  soothing  together  with  the  sense  of 
home  security  and  a  cup  of  French  chocolate  prepared  by 
Antoinette,  who,  astonished  at  our  early  return  and  seeing 
her  darling  in  distress,  had  hastened  to  provide  culinary 
consolation,  had  restored  her  wonted  serenity  of  demean- 
our. Polyphemus  also  purred  reassuringly  upon  her  lap. 

"It  was  a  lie  this  evening,"  said  I,  "but  in  a  few  days  I 
hope  it  will  be  true." 

"You  are  going  to  marry  me?"  she  asked,  suddenly  sit- 
ting erect  and  looking  at  me  rather  bewildered. 

"If  you  will  have  me,  Carlotta." 

"I  will  do  what  Seer  Marcous  tells  me,"  she  answered. 
"  Will  you  marry  me  to-morrow?" 

"  I  think  it  hardly  possible,  my  dear,"  I  answered.  "  But 
I  shall  lose  no  time,  I  assure  you.  Once  you  are  my  wife 
neither  Hamdi  Effendi  nor  the  Sultan  of  Turkey  can  claim 
you.  No  one  can  take  an  Englishman's  wife  away  from 
him." 

"  Hamdi  is  a  devil,"  said  Carlotta. 

"  We  can  laugh  at  him,"  said  I. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  an  ugly  mug?" 

Where  she  gets  her  occasional  bits  of  slang  from  I  do 
not  know;  but  her  little  foreign  staccato  pronunciation 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     193 

gives  them  unusual  quaintness.  I  laughed,  and  Carlotta, 
throwing  Polyphemus  off  her  lap,  laughed  too,  and  sidled 
up  against  me.  The  cat  regarded  us  for  a  moment  with  a 
disgusted  eye,  then  stretched  himself  as  if  he  had  quitted 
Carlotta  of  his  own  accord,  and  walked  away  in  a  state  of 
dignified  boredom. 

"Hamdi  is  like  a  pig  and  an  elephant  and  a  great  fat 
turkey,"  said  Carlotta. 

"If  all  the  world  were  beautiful,"  I  exclaimed,  "such  a 
thing  as  our  appreciation  of  beauty  would  not  exist.  I 
should  not  even  be  aware  that  my  Carlotta  was  beautiful." 

She  put  her  hands  on  my  knees  in  her  impulsive  way, 
and  bending  forward  looked  at  me  delightedly. 

"Oh,  you  do  think  so?" 

"You  are  the  loveliest  and  most  intoxicating  creature 
on  the  earth,  Carlotta." 

"Now  I  am  sure,  sure,  sure,"  she  cried,  enraptured. 
"You  have  never  said  it  before,  Seer  Marcous  darling, 
and  I  must  kiss  you." 

I  checked  her  with  my  hands  on  her  soft  shoulders. 

"  Only  if  you  promise  to  marry  me." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Carlotta. 

She  said  it  as  thoughtlessly  and  light-heartedly  as  if  I 
had  asked  her  to  come  out  for  a  walk.  Again  I  felt  the  odd 
spasm  of  pain.  In  my  late  madness  I  had  often  pictured 
the  scene:  how  I  should  hold  her  throbbing  beauty  in  my 
arms,  my  senses  clouded  with  the  fragrance  of  her,  and 
how,  in  burning  words,  I  should  pour  out  the  litany  of  my 
passion.  But  to  the  gods  it  seemed  otherwise.  No  Qua- 
ker maiden's  betrothal  kiss  was  chaster.  Cold  grew  the 
fever  in  my  veins  and  the  litany  died  on  my  lips. 

Who  and  what  is  she  whom  I  love?    There  have  been 
days  when  her  eyes  have  carried  in  their  depths  the  allure- 
13 


194    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

jnents  of  a  sorceress,  when  her  limbs  have  woven  Venus- 
berg  enchantments  which  it  has  taken  all  my  strength  to 
withstand.  But  to-night,  when  I  take  the  greatest  step  and 
claim  her  as  mine  till  our  lives'  end,  she  yields  with  the 
complaisance  of  an  ignorant  child  and  raises  up  between 
us  the  barrier  of  her  innocence.  When  shall  I  learn  the 
soul  of  her? 

Well,  jacta  est  alea.  The  events  of  to-night  have  pre- 
cipitated our  destiny.  In  all  probability  Hamdi  is  power- 
less to  take  her  from  my  protection,  and  this  marriage  is 
unnecessary  as  a  safeguard.  I  have  no  notion  of  the 
international  law  on  such  points — but  at  any  rate  it  will 
make  the  assurance  of  her  safety  absolute.  No  power  on 
earth  can  take  her  from  me.  Great  Heaven!  The  thought 
of  her  gone  forever  out  of  my  life  brings  the  cold  sweat 
to  my  forehead.  Without  her,  child,  enchantress,  change- 
ling that  she  is,  how  could  I  face  existence  ? 

I  shall  have  my  heart's  desire.  Why,  I  should  be  athril] 
with  the  joy  and  the  flame  of  youth!  I  should  laugh  and 
sing!  I  should  perform  the  happy  antics  of  love's  exuber- 
ance! I  should  be  transported  to  the  realms  where  the 
fairy  tales  endT 

Instead,  I  sit  before  a  dying  fire,  as  I  sat  last  night,  and 
am  oppressed  with  the  sense  of  tragedy.  It  was  not  alto- 
gether Carlotta's  innocence  that  formed  the  barrier  be- 
tween us.  That  which  rendered  it  impassable  was  Ju- 
dith's white  face. 

Judith's  white  face  will  haunt  my  dreams  to-night 


CHAPTER  XVI 

October  27^. 

I  do  not  like  living.  It  is  thoroughly  disagreeable.  To- 
day Judith  taunted  me  with  never  having  lived,  and  I 
admitted  the  justice  of  the  taunt  and  regretted  in  poi- 
gnant misery  the  change  from  my  old  conditions.  If  to 
live  is  to  have  one's  reason  cast  down  and  trampled 
under  foot,  one's  heart  aflame  with  a  besotted  passion  and 
one's  soul  racked  with  remorse,  then  am  I  living  in  good 
sooth — and  I  would  far  rather  be  dead  and  suffering  the 
milder  pains  of  Purgatory.  Men  differently  constituted 
get  used  to  it,  as  the  eels  to  skinning.  They  say  "mea 
culpa"  "damn,"  or  "Kismet,"  according  to  their  various 
traditions,  and  go  forth  comforted  to  their  workaday 
pursuits.  I  envy  them.  I  enter  this  exquisite  Torture 
Chamber,  and  I  shriek  at  the  first  twinge  of  the  thumb- 
screw and  faint  at  the  preliminary  embraces  of  the  scav- 
enger's daughter. 

I  envy  a  fellow  like  Caesar  Borgia.  He  could  murder 
a  friend,  seduce  his  widow,  and  rob  the  orphans  all  on  a 
summer's  day,  and  go  home  contentedly  to  supper;  and 
after  a  little  music  he  could  sleep  like  a  man  who  has 
thoroughly  earned  his  repose.  What  manner  of  crea- 
tures are  other  men?  They  are  a  blank  mystery  to  me; 
and  I  am  writing — or  have  been  writing — a  sociological 
study  of  the  most  subtle  generation  of  them  that  has  ever 
existed!  I  am  an  empty  fool.  I  know  absolutely  nothing. 
I  can  no  more  account  for  the  peaceful  slumbers  of  that 
marvellous  young  man  of  five-and-twenty  than  I  can 
predicate  the  priority  of  the  first  hen  or  the  first  egg.  I, 

195 


196     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

with  never  a  murder  or  a  seduction  or  a  robbery  on  my 
conscience,  could  not  sleep  last  night.  I  doubt  whether  I 
shall  sleep  to-night.  I  feel  as  if  I  shall  remain  awake 
through  the  centuries  with  a  rat  gnawing  my  vitals. 

So  unhappy  looking  a  woman  as  Judith,  when  I  called  on 
her  early  this  forenoon,  I  have  never  beheld.  Gone  was 
the  elaborate  coquetry  of  yesterday;  gone  the  quiet  ro- 
guishness  of  yesteryear;  gone  was  all  the  Judith  that  I 
knew,  and  in  her  place  stood  a  hollow-eyed  woman  shak- 
ing at  gates  eternally  barred. 

"I  thought  you  would  come  this  morning.  I  had  that 
lingering  faith  in  you." 

"Your  face  haunted  me  all  night,"  I  said.  "I  was 
bound  to  come." 

"  So,  this  is  the  end  of  it  all,"  she  remarked,  stonily. 

"No,"  said  I.  "It  only  marks  the  transition  from  a 
very  ill-defined  relationship  to  as  loyal  a  friendship  as  ever 
man  could  offer  woman." 

She  gave  a  quivering  little  shrug  of  disgust  and  turned 
away. 

"Oh,  don't  talk  like  that — 'I  can't  offer  you  bread,  but 
I'll  give  you  a  nice  round  polished  stone.'  Friendship! 
What  has  a  woman  like  me  got  to  do  with  friendship  ?  " 

"Have  I  ever  given  you  much  more?" 

"  God  knows  what  you  have  given  me,"  she  cried,  bit- 
terly. She  stared  out  of  the  window  at  the  sodden  street 
and  murky  air.  I  went  to  her  side  and  touched  her  wrist. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Judith,  tell  me  what  I  can  do." 

"What's  done  is  done,"  she  said,  between  her  teeth. 
"When  did  you  marry  her?" 

I  explained  briefly  the  condition  of  affairs.  She  looked 
at  me  hard  and  long;  then  stared  out  of  the  window  again, 
and  scarce  heeded  what  I  said. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      197 

"It  was  to  set  myself  right  with  you  on  this  point,"  I 
added,  "  that  I  have  visited  you  at  such  an  hour." 

She  remained  silent.  I  took  a  few  turns  about  the  fa- 
miliar room  that  was  filled  with  the  associations  of  many 
years.  The  piano  we  chose  together.  The  copy  of  the 
Botticelli  Tondo — the  crowned  Madonna  of  the  Uffizi — 
I  gave  her  in  Florence.  We  had  ransacked  London  to- 
gether to  find  the  Chippendale  bookcase;  and  on  its 
shelves  stood  books  that  had  formed  a  bond  between  us, 
and  copies  of  old  reviews  containing  my  fugitive  contribu- 
tions. A  spurious  Japanese  dragon  in  faience,  an  inar- 
tistic monstrosity  dear  to  her  heart,  at  which  I  had  often 
railed,  grinned  forgivingly  at  me  from  the  mantel-piece. 
I  have  never  realised  how  closely  bound  up  with  my  hab- 
its was  this  drawing-room  of  Judith's.  I  stopped  once 
more  by  her  side. 

"I  can't  leave  you  altogether,  dear,"  I  said,  gently.  "A 
bit  of  myself  is  in  this  room." 

Her  bosom  shook  with  unhappy  laughter. 

"A  bit?"  Then  she  turned  suddenly  on  me.  "Are 
you  simply  dull  or  sheerly  cruel?" 

"I  am  dull,"  said  I.  "Why  do  you  refuse  my  friend- 
ship? Our  relation  has  been  scarcely  more.  It  has  not 
touched  the  deep  things  in  us.  We  agreed  at  the  start  that 
it  should  not.  The  words  'I  love  you'  have  never  passed 
between  us.  We  have  been  loyal  to  our  compact.  Now 
that  love  has  come  into  my  life — and  Heaven  knows  I 
have  striven  against  it — what  would  you  have  me  do?" 

"And  what  would  you  have  me  do?"  said  Judith,  tone- 
lessly. 

"Forgive  me  for  breaking  off  the  old,  and  trust  me  to 
make  the  new  pleasant  to  you." 

She  made  no  answer,  but  stood  still  staring  out  of  the 
window  like  a  woman  of  stone.  Presently  she  shivered 


198     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

and  crossed  to  the  fire,  before  which  she  crouched  on  a 
low  chair.  I  remained  by  the  window,  anxious,  puzzled, 
oppressed. 

"Marcus,"  she  said  at  last,  in  a  low  vt^ce.  I  obeyed  her 
summons.  She  motioned  me  to  a  chair,  and  without  look- 
ing at  me  began  to  speak. 

"  You  said  there  was  a  bit  of  you  in  this  room.  There  is 
everything  of  you.  Your  whole  being  is  for  me  in  this  room. 
You  are  with  me  wherever  I  go.  You  are  the  beginning 
and  end  of  life  to  me.  I  love  you  with  a  passion  that  is 
killing  me.  I  am  an  emotional  woman.  I  made  ship- 
wreck of  myself  because  I  thought  I  loved  a  man.  But, 
as  God  hears  me,  you  are  the  only  man  I  have  loved.  You 
came  to  me  like  a  breath  of  Heaven  while  I  was  in  Purga- 
tory— and  you  have  been  Heaven  to  me  ever  since.  It  has 
been  play  to  you — but  to  me — " 

I  fell  on  my  knees  beside  her.  Each  of  the  low  half- 
whispered  words  was  a  red  hot  iron.  I  had  received  last 
night  the  message  of  her  white  face  with  incredulity.  I 
had  reviewed  our  past  life  together  and  had  found  little 
warrant  in  it  for  that  message.  It  could  not  come  from 
the  depths.  It  was  staggeringly  impossible.  And  now  the 
impossible  was  the  flaming  fact. 

I  fell  on  my  knees  beside  her. 

"Not  play,  Judith— " 

She  put  out  her  hand  to  check  me,  and  the  words  died 
on  my  lips.  What  could  I  say  ? 

"For  you  it  was  a  detached  pleasant  sentiment,  if  you 
like;  for  me  the  deadliest  earnest.  I  was  a  fool  too.  You 
never  said  you  loved  me,  but  I  thought  you  did.  You  were 
not  as  other  men,  you  knew  nothing  of  the  ways  of  the  world 
or  of  women  or  of  passion — you  were  reserved,  intellect- 
ual— you  viewed  things  in  a  queer  light  of  your  own.  I 
felt  that  the  touch  of  a  chain  would  fret  you.  I  gave  you 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     199 

absolute  freedom — often  when  I  craved  for  you.  I  made 
no  demands.  I  assented  to  your  philosophic  analysis  of 
the  situation — it  is  your  way  to  moralise  whimsically  on 
everything,  as  if  you  were  a  disconnected  intelligence  out- 
side the  universe — and  I  paid  no  attention  to  it.  I  used  to 
laugh  at  you — oh,  not  unkindly,  but  lovingly,  happily,  vic- 
toriously. Oh,  yes,  I  was  a  fool — what  woman  in  love 
isn't?  I  thought  I  gave  you  all  you  needed.  I  was  con- 
tent, secure.  I  magnified  every  little  demonstration. 
When  you  touched  my  ear  it  was  more  to  me  than  the  em- 
brace of  another  man  might  have  been.  I  have  lived  on 
one  kiss  of  yours  for  a  week.  To  you  the  kiss  was  of  no 
more  value  than  a  cigarette.  I  wish,"  she  added  in  a 
whisper,  "I  wish  I  were  dead!" 

She  had  spoken  in  a  low,  monotonous  voice,  staring  hag- 
gardly at  the  fire,  while  I  knelt  by  her  side.  I  murmured 
some  banal  apologia,  miserably  aware  that  one  set  of 
words  is  as  futile  as  another  when  one  has  broken  a  wo- 
man's heart. 

"You  never  knew  I  loved  you?"  she  went  on  in  the 
same  bitter  undertone.  "What  kind  of  woman  did  you 
take  me  for  ?  I  have  accepted  help  from  you  to  enable  me 
to  live  in  this  flat — do  you  imagine  I  could  have  done  such 
a  thing  without  loving  you  ?  I  should  have  thought  it  was 
obvious  in  a  thousand  ways." 

The  fire  getting  low,  she  took  up  the  scoop  for  coals. 
Mechanically  I  relieved  her  of  the  thing  and  fulfilled  the 
familiar  task.  Neither  spoke  for  a  long  time.  She  re- 
mained there  and  I  went  to  the  window.  It  had  begun  to 
rain.  A  barrel-organ  below  was  playing  some  horrible 
music-hall  air,  and  every  vibrant  note  was  like  a  hammer 
on  one's  nerves.  The  grinder's  bedraggled  Italian  wife 
perceiving  me  at  the  window  grinned  up  at  me  with  the 
national  curve  of  the  palm.  She  had  a  black  eye  which 


2oo     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

the  cacophonous  fiend  had  probably  given  her,  and  she 
grinned  like  a  happy  child  of  nature.  Men  in  my  position 
do  not  blacken  women's  eyes ;  but  it  is  only  a  question  of 
manners.  Was  I,  for  that,  less  of  a  brute  male  than  the 
scowling  beast  at  the  organ? 

The  sudden  sound  of  a  sob  made  me  turn  to  Judith, 
who  had  broken  down  and  was  crying  bitterly,  her  face 
hidden  in  her  hands.  I  bent  and  touched  her  shoulder. 

"Judith—" 

She  flung  her  arms  around  my  neck. 

"I  can't  give  you  up,  I  can't,  I  can't,  I  can't,"  she  cried, 
wildly. 

For  the  first  tune  in  my  life  I  heard  a  woman  give  aban- 
doned, incoherent  utterance  to  an  agony  of  passion;  and 
it  sounded  horrible,  like  the  cry  of  an  animal  wounded  to 
death. 

A  guilt-stricken  creature,  scarce  daring  to  meet  her  eyes, 
I  bade  her  farewell.  She  had  recovered  her  composure. 

"Make  me  one  little  promise,  Marcus,  do  me  one  little 
favour,"  she  said,  with  quivering  lip,  and  letting  her  cold 
hand  remain  in  mine.  "Stay  away  from  her  to-day.  I 
couldn't  bear  to  think  of  you  and  her  together,  happy, 
love-making,  after  what  I've  said  this  morning.  I  should 
writhe  with  the  shame  and  the  torture  of  it.  Give  me  your 
thoughts  to-day.  Wear  a  little  mourning  for  the  dead.  It 
is  all  I  ask  of  you." 

"I  should  have  done  what  you  ask  without  the  asking," 
I  replied. 

I  kissed  her  hand,  and  went  out  into  the  street. 

I  had  walked  but  a  few  blind  steps  when  I  became 
aware  of  the  presence  and  voice  of  Pasquale. 

"Coming  from  Mrs.  Mainwaring's ?  I  am  just  on  my 
way  there  to  restore  her  opera-glasses  which  I  ran  away 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     201 

with  last  night.  What's  her  number  ?  I  forget.  I  dropped 
in  at  Lingfield  Terrace  to  inquire,  but  found  you  had 
already  started." 

"Seventeen,"  I  answered,  mechanically. 

"You  are  not  looking  well,  my  good  friend,"  said  he. 
"  I  hope  last  night  has  not  upset  you.  It's  all  bluff,  you 
know,  on  the  part  of  the  precious  Hamdi." 

"I  dare  say  it  was,"  I  assented. 

"  And  bluff  on  your  part,  too.  I  have  never  given  your 
imaginative  faculties  sufficient  credit.  It  bowled  Hamdi 
out  clean." 

"  Yes,"  said  I.    "  It  bowled  him  out  clean." 

" Serve  him  right,"  said  Pasquale.  "He's  the  wickedest 
old  thief  unhung." 

"Quite  so,"  said  I,  "the  wickedest  old  thief  unhung." 

Pasquale  shook  me  by  the  arm. 

"Are  you  a  man  or  a  phonograph?  What  on  earth  has 
happened  to  you?" 

I  think  I  envied  the  laughter  in  his  handsome,  dark  face, 
and  the  careless  grace  of  the  fellow  as  he  stood  beneath 
his  dripping  umbrella  debonair  as  a  young  prince,  in 
perfectly  fitting  blue  serge — he  wore  no  overcoat;  mine 
was  buttoned  up  to  the  chin — and  immaculate  suede 
gloves. 

"What  is  it?"  he  repeated,  gaily. 

"I  didn't  sleep  last  night,"  said  I,  "my  breakfast  disa- 
greed with  me,  and  it's  raining  in  the  most  unpleasant 
manner." 

Even  while  I  was  speaking  he  left  my  side  and  darted 
across  the  road.  In  some  astonishment  I  watched  him 
for  a  moment  from  the  kerb,  and  then  made  my  way  slowly 
to  the  other  side.  I  found  him  in  conversation  with  an 
emaciated,  bedraggled  woman  standing  by  an  enormous 
bundle,  about  three  times  her  own  cubic  bulk,  which  she 


2O2     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

had  rested  on  the  slimy  pavement.  One  hand  pressed  a 
panting  bosom. 

"You  are  going  to  carry  that  in  your  arms  all  the 
way  to  South  Kensington?"  I  heard  him  cry  as  I  ap- 
proached. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  woman. 

"Then  you  shan't.  I'm  not  going  to  allow  it.  Catch 
hold  of  this." 

The  umbrella  which  he  thrust  out  at  her  she  clutched 
automatically,  to  prevent  it  falling  about  her  ears.  The 
veto  she  received  with  a  wonderment  which  deepened  into 
stupefaction  when  she  saw  him  lift  the  huge  bundle  in  his 
arms  and  stalk  away  with  it  down  the  street.  She  turned 
a  scared  face  at  me. 

"It's  washing,"  she  said. 

Pasquale  paused,  looked  round  and  motioned  her  on- 
ward. She  followed  without  a  word,  holding  the  trim  sil- 
ver mounted  umbrella,  and  I  mechanically  brought  up 
the  rear.  It  had  all  happened  so  quickly  that  I  too  was 
confused.  The  scanty  populace  in  the  rain-filled  street 
stared  and  gaped.  A  shambling  fellow  in  corduroys 
bawled  an  obscene  jest.  Pasquale  put  down  his  bun- 
dle. 

"  Do  you  want  to  be  sent  to  hell  by  lightning  ?  "  he  asked, 
with  the  evil  snarl  of  the  lips. 

"No,"  said  the  man,  sheering  off. 

"  I'm  glad,"  remarked  Pasquale,  picking  up  the  bundle. 
And  we  resumed  our  progress. 

Luckily  a  four-wheeled  cab  overtook  us.  Pasquale 
stopped  it,  squeezed  the  bundle  inside,  and  held  the  door 
open  for  the  faltering  and  bewildered  woman,  as  if  she  had 
been  the  authentic  duchessa  at  Ealing. 

"You  were  saying,  Ordeyne,"  he  observed,  as  the  cab- 
man drove  off  with  three  shillings  and  his  incoherent  fare, 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     203 

"you  were  saying  that  your  breakfast    disagreed  with 
you." 

In  spite  of  my  heaviness  of  heart,  I  laughed  and  loved 
the  man.  There  was  something  fantastically  chivalrous 
in  the  action;  something  superb  in  the  contempt  of  con- 
vention; something  whimsical,  adventurous,  unexpected; 
and  something  divine  in  the  wrathful  pity:  and  some- 
thing irresistible  in  his  impudent  apostrophe  to  myself.  It 
has  been  the  one  flash  of  comfort  during  this  long  and 
desolate  day. 

I  have  kept  my  promise  to  Judith.  I  have  lunched  and 
dined  at  the  club,  and  in  the  library  of  the  club  I  have 
tried  to  while  away  the  hours.  I  intended  this  morning  to 
make  the  necessary  arrangements  for  the  marriage.  After 
my  interview  with  Judith  I  had  not  the  heart.  I  put  it  off 
till  to-morrow.  I  have  observed  the  day  as  a  day  of 
mourning.  I  have  worn  sackcloth  and  ashes.  I  have  done 
such  penance  as  I  could  for  the  grievous  fault  I  have  com- 
mitted. Carlotta  is  in  bed  and  asleep.  She  went  early, 
says  Antoinette,  having  a  bad  headache.  No  wonder,  poor 
child. 

A  few  moments  ago  I  was  tempted  to  peep  into  her 
room  and  satisfy  myself  that  she  was  not  ailing.  A  head- 
ache is  the  common  precursor  to  many  maladies.  But  I 
remembered  my  promise  and  refrained.  The  cooing  notes 
of  the  voice  would  have  called  me  to  her  side,  and  her 
arms  would  have  been  around  my  neck  and  I  should  have 
forgotten  Judith, 


CHAPTER  XVII 

October  2&h. 

I  rose  late  this  morning.  When  I  went  down  to  break- 
fast I  found  that  Carlotta  had  already  gone  for  her  music 
lesson. 

I  drove  at  once  to  the  Temple  to  see  my  lawyers  and  to 
make  arrangements  for  a  marriage  by  special  license. 

I  returned  at  one  o'clock.  Stenson  met  me  in  the 
hall. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir  Marcus,  but  Mademoiselle 
hasn't  come  back  yet." 

I  waited  an  uneasy  hour.  Such  a  lengthy  absence  from 
home  was  unprecedented.  At  two  o'clock  I  went  round 
to  Herr  Stuer  in  the  Avenue  Road — a  five  minutes'  walk. 

He  entered  the  sitting-room  into  which  I  had  been  ush- 
ered, wiping  his  lips. 

"I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you,  Herr  Stuer,"  said  I,  "but 
will  you  kindly  tell  me  when  Miss  Carlotta  left  you,  this 
morning?" 

"  Miss  Carlotta  came  not  at  all  this  morning,"  he  replied. 

"But  it  was  her  regular  day?" 

"At  ten  o'clock.  She  did  not  come.  At  eleven  I  have 
another  pupil.  She  has  not  before  missed  one  lesson." 

I  flew  back  home,  in  an  agony  of  hope  that  her  laughing 
face  would  meet  me  there  and  dispel  a  dread  that  chilled 
me  like  an  icy  wind. 

There  was  no  Carlotta. 

There  has  been  no  Carlotta  all  this  awful  day. 

There  will  never  be  a  Carlotta  again. 

204 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     205 

I  drove  to  the  police  station. 

"What  do  you  think  has  happened?"  asked  the  In- 
spector. 

It  was  only  too  horribly  obvious.  Any  man  but  my- 
self would  have  kept  her  under  lock  and  key  and  estab- 
lished a  guard  round  the  house.  Any  man  but  myself 
would  have  never  let  her  out  of  his  sight  until  he  had 
married  her,  until  he  had  tracked  Hamdi  and  his  myr- 
midons back  to  Alexandretta. 

"Abduction  has  happened,"  I  cried  wildly.  "Between 
Lingfield  Terrace  and  Avenue  Road  she  has  been  caught, 
thrust  into  a  closed  carriage,  gagged  and  carried  God 
knows  where  by  Ihe  wiliest  old  thief  in  Asia.  He  is  the 
Prefect  of  Police  in  Aleppo.  His  name  is  Hamdi  Effendi 
and  he  is  staying  at  the  H6tel  Metropole." 

The  Inspector  questioned  me.  Heaven  knows  how  I 
answered.  I  saw  the  scene.  The  waiting  carriage.  The 
unfrequented  bit  of  road.  My  heart's  darling,  her  face  a 
radiant  flower  in  the  grey  morning,  tripping  lightheart- 
edly  along.  The  sudden  dash,  the  struggle,  the  swiftly 
closed  door.  It  was  a  matter  of  a  few  seconds.  My  brain 
grew  dizzy  with  the  vision. 

"You  say  that  he  threatened  to  abduct  her?"  asked  the 
Inspector. 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "and  a  friend  of  mine  promised  to  kill 
him.  Heaven  grant  he  keep  his  promise ! " 

"Be  careful,  Sir  Marcus,"  smiled  the  Inspector.  "Or 
if  there  is  a  murder  committed  you  will  be  an  accessory 
before  the  fact." 

I  intimated  my  disregard  of  the  contingency.  What  did 
it  matter  ?  Nothing  in  the  world  mattered  save  the  recov- 
ery of  the  light  and  meaning  o'  my  existence.  My  friend's 
name  ?  Sebastian  Pasquale.  He  lived  near  by  in  the  St. 
John's  Wood  Road. 


206     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"The  best  thing  you  can  do,  Sir  Marcus,"  said  the  In- 
spector, "is  to  get  hold  of  Mr.  Pasquale  and  take  him 
with  you  to  Scotland  Yard.  Perhaps  two  heads  will  be 
better  than  one.  In  the  meanwhile  we  shall  communicate 
with  headquarters  and  make  the  necessary  inquiries  in 
the  neighbourhood." 

I  drove  to  St.  John's  Wood  Road,  and  learned  to  my 
dismay  that  Pasquale  had  given  up  his  rooms  there  a  week 
ago.  All  his  letters  were  addressed  to  his  club  in  Picca- 
dilly. I  drove  thither.  How  has  mankind  contented  itself 
for  these  thousands  of  years  with  a  horse  as  its  chief 
means  of  locomotion?  Oh,  the  exasperation  I  suffered 
behind  that  magnified  snail!  I  dashed  Into  the  club.  Mr. 
Pasquale  had  not  been  there  all  day.  No,  he  was  not  stay- 
ing there.  It  was  against  the  rules  to  give  members'  pri- 
vate addresses. 

"But  it's  a  matter  of  life  and  death!"  I  cried. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  sir,"  said  the  hall  porter,  "Mr. 
Pasquale's  only  permanent  address  is  his  banker's,  and 
we  really  don't  know  where  he  is  staying  at  present." 

I  wrote  a  hurried  line : 

"Hamdi  has  abducted  Carlotta.  I  am  half  crazed.  As 
you  love  me  give  me  your  help.  Oh,  God!  man,  why 
aren't  you  here?" 

I  left  it  with  the  porter,  and  crawled  to  Scotland  Yard. 
The  cabman  at  my  invectives  against  his  sauntering  beast 
waxed  indignant;  it  was  a  three-quarter  blood  mare  and 
one  of  the  fastest  trotters  in  London. 

"She  passes  everything,"  said  he. 

"  It  is  because  everything  is  standing  still  or  going  back- 
ward or  turned  upside  down,"  said  I. 

No  doubt  he  thought  me  mad.  Mad  as  a  dingo  dog.  The 
thought  of  the  words,  the  summer  and  the  sun  sent  a  spasm 
of  hunger  through  my  heart.  Then  I  murmured  to  my- 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne      207 

self:  '"Save  my  soul  from  hell  and  my  darling  from  the 
power  of  the  dog.'  Which  dog?  Not  the  dingo  dog." 

I  verily  believe  my  brain  worked  wrong  to-day. 

Great  Scotland  Yard  at  last.  I  went  through  passages. 
I  found  myself  in  a  nondescript  room  where  a  courteous 
official  seated  at  a  desk  held  me  on  the  rack  for  half  an 
hour.  I  had  to  describe  Carlotta:  not  in  the  imagery 
wherein  only  one  could  create  an  impression  of  her  sweet- 
ness, but  in  the  objective  terms  of  the  police  report.  What 
was  she  wearing?  A  hat,  and  jacket,  a  skirt,  shoes;  of 
course  she  wore  gloves;  possibly  she  carried  a  muff. 
Impatient  of  such  commonplace  details,  I  described  her 
fully.  But  the  glory  of  her  bronze  hair,  her  great  dark 
brown  eyes,  the  quivering  sensitiveness  of  her  lips;  her 
intoxicating  compound  of  Botticelli  and  the  Venusberg; 
the  dove- notes  of  her  voice;  all  was  a  matter  of  bore- 
dom to  Scotland  Yard.  They  clamoured  for  the  colour 
of  her  feathers  and  the  material  of  which  her  dress  was 
made;  her  height  in  vulgar  figures  and  the  sizes  of  her 
gloves  and  shoes. 

"How  on  earth  can  I  tell  you?"  I  cried  in  desperation. 

"Perhaps  one  of  your  servants  can  give  the  necessary 
information,"  replied  the  urbane  official.  If  I  had  lost  an 
umbrella  he  could  not  have  viewed  my  plight  with  more 
inhuman  blandness! 

A  miracle  happened.  As  I  was  writing  a  summons  to 
Stenson  to  obtain  these  details  from  Antoinette  and  attend 
at  once,  a  policeman  entered  and  I  learned  that  my  confi- 
dential man  was  at  the  door.  My  heart  leapt  within  me. 
He  had  tracked  me  hither  and  had  come  to  tell  me  that 
Carlotta  was  safe.  But  the  first  glance  at  his  face  killed  the 
wild  hope.  He  had  tracked  me  hither,  it  is  true;  but  only 
apologetically  to  offer  what  information  might  be  useful. 

"  It  is  a  very  great  liberty,  Sir  Marcus,  and  I  will  retire 


208     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

at  once  if  I  have  overstepped  my  duties,  but  there  are  im- 
portant details,  sir,  in  catastrophes  of  this  nature  with 
which  my  experience  has  taught  me  only  servants  can  be 
acquainted." 

There  must  be  a  book  of  ten  thousand  pages  entitled 
"The  Perfect  Valet,"  dealing  with  every  contingency  of 
domestic  life  which  this  admirable  fellow  has  by  heart. 
He  uttered  his  Ciceronian  sentence  with  the  gravity  of  a 
pasteboard  figure  in  the  toy  theatre  of  one's  childhood. 

"Can  you  describe  the  young  lady's  dress?"  asked  the 
official. 

"I  have  made  it  my  business,"  said  Stenson,  "to  obtain 
accurate  information  as  to  every  detail  of  Mademoiselle 
Carlotta's  attire  when  she  left  the  house  this  morning." 

I  faded  into  insignificance.  Stenson  was  a  man  after  the 
Inspector's  heart.  A  few  eager  questions  brought  the  de- 
sired result.  A  dark  red  toque  with  a  grey  bird's  wing;  a 
wine-coloured  zouave  jacket  and  skirt,  black  braided;  a 
dark  blue  bodice;  a  plain  gold  brooch  (the  first  trinket  I 
had  given  her — the  occasion  of  her  first  clasp  of  arms 
around  my  neck)  fastening  her  collar;  a  silver  fox  necklet 
and  muff;  patent  leather  shoes  and  brown  suede  gloves. 

"Any  special  mark  or  characteristics?" 

"A  white  scar  above  the  left  temple,"  said  Stenson. 

Lord  have  mercy!  The  man  has  lived  day  by  day  for 
five  months  with  Carlotta's  magical  beauty,  and  all  he  has 
noticed  as  characteristic  is  the  little  white  scar — she  fell  on 
marble  steps  as  a  child — the  only  flaw,  if  flaw  can  be  in  a 
thing  so  imperceptible,  in  her  perfect  loveliness. 

"Mademoiselle  has  also  a  tiny  mole  behind  her  right 
ear,"  said  Stenson. 

The  Inspector's  conception  of  Stenson  expanded  into 
an  apotheosis.  He  paid  him  deference.  His  pen  wrote 
greedily  every  syllable  the  inspired  creature  uttered.  When 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     209 

the  fount  of  inspiration  ran  dry,  Stenson  turned  to  me  with 
his  imperturbable,  profoundly  respectful  air. 

"  Shall  I  return  home,  Sir  Marcus,  or  have  you  any  fur- 
ther need  of  my  service?" 

I  bade  him  go  home.  He  withdrew.  The  Inspector 
smiled  cheerfully.  "Now  we  can  get  along,"  said  he. 
"It's  a  pity  Mr.  — Mr.  Pasquale"  (he  consulted  his  notes) 
"is  out  of  touch  with  us  for  the  moment.  He  might  have 
given  us  great  assistance." 

He  rose  from  his  chair.  "I  think  we  shall  very  soon 
trace  the  young  lady.  An  accurate  personal  description 
like  this,  you  see,  is  invaluable." 

He  handed  me  the  printed  form  which  he  had  filled  in. 
In  spite  of  my  misery  I  almost  laughed  at  the  fatuity  of 
the  man  in  thinking  that  those  mere  unimaginative  statis- 
tics applicable  to  five  hundred  thousand  young  females  in 
London,  could  in  any  way  express  Carlotta. 

"This  is  all  very  well,"  said  I;  "but  the  first  thing  to  do 
is  to  lay  that  Turkish  devil  by  the  heels." 

"You  can  count  on  our  making  the  most  prompt  and 
thorough  investigation,"  said  he. 

"And  in  the  mean  time  what  can  I  do?" 

"Your  best  course,  Sir  Marcus,"  he  answered,  "is  to  go 
home  and  leave  things  in  our  hands.  As  soon  as  ever  we 
have  the  slightest  clue,  we  shall  communicate  with  you." 

He  bowed  me  out  politely.  In  a  few  moments  I  found 
myself  in  the  greyness  of  the  autumn  afternoon  wander- 
ing on  the  Thames  Embankment  like  a  lost  soul  on  the 
banks  of  Phlegethon.  It  seemed  as  if  I  had  never  seen  the 
sun,  should  never  see  the  sun  again.  I  was  drifting  sans 
purpose  into  eternity. 

I  passed  by  some  railings.  A  colossal  figure  looming 
through  the  misty  air  struck  me  with  a  sense  of  familiarity. 
It  was  the  statue  of  Sir  Bartle  Frere,  and  these  were  the 


21  o    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

gardens  beneath  the  terrace  of  the  National  Liberal 
Club.  It  was  here  that  I  had  first  met  her.  The  dripping 
trees  seemed  to  hold  the  echo  of  the  words  spoken  when 
their  leaves  were  green:  "Will  you  please  to  tell  me  what 
I  shall  do  ?"  I  strained  rny  eyes  to  see  the  bench  on  which 
I  had  sat,  and  my  eyes  tricked  me  into  translating  a  blurr 
at  the  end  of  the  seat  into  the  ghostly  form  of  Carlotta. 
My  misery  overwhelmed  me;  and  through  my  misery  shot 
a  swift  pang  of  remorse  at  having  treated  her  harshly  on 
that  sweet  and  memorable  afternoon  in  May. 

I  turned  the  corner  at  Whitehall  Place  and  looked  down 
the  desolate  gardens.  The  benches  were  empty,  the  trees 
were  bare,  "and  no  birds  sang."  I  crossed  the  road. 

The  Hotel  Metropole.  The  great  doors  stood  invitingly 
open,  and  from  the  pavement  one  could  see  the  warmth 
and  colour  of  the  vestibule.  Here  was  staying  the  Arch- 
Devil  who  had  robbed  me  of  my  life.  I  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment under  the  portico  shaking  with  rage.  I  must  have 
lost  consciousness  for  a  few  seconds  for  I  do  not  remember 
entering  or  mounting  the  stairs.  I  found  myself  at  the 
bureau  asking  for  Hamcli  Effendi.  No,  he  had  not  left. 
They  thought  he  was  in  the  hotel.  A  page  despatched  in 
search  of  him  departed  with  my  card,  bawling  a  number. 
I  hate  these  big  caravanserais  where  one  is  a  mere  num- 
ber, as  in  a  gaol.  "Would  to  heaven  it  were  a  gaol,"  I 
muttered  to  myself,  "  and  this  were  the  number  of  Hamdi 
Effendi!" 

A  lean  man  rose  from  a  chair  and,  holding  out  his  hand, 
effusively  saluted  me  by  name.  I  stared  at  him.  He  re- 
called our  acquaintance  at  Etretat.  I  fished  him  up 
from  the  deeps  of  a  previous  incarnation  and  vaguely  re- 
membered him  as  a  young  American  floral  decorator  who 
used  to  preach  to  me  the  eternal  doctrine  of  hustle.  I 
shook  hands  with  him  and  hoped  that  he  was  well. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     211 

"  Going  very  strong.  Never  stronger.  Never  so  well  as 
when  I'm  full  up  with  work.  But  you  don't  hurry  around 
enough  in  this  dear,  sleepy  old  country.  Men  lunch.  In 
New  York  all  the  lunch  one  has  time  for  is  to  swallow  a 
plasmon  lozenge  in  a  street-car." 

His  high  pitched  voice  shrieked  bombastic  platitude 
into  my  ears  for  an  illimitable  time.  I  answered  occasion- 
ally with  the  fringe  of  my  mind.  Could  my  agonised  state 
of  being  have  remained  unperceived  by  any  human  crea- 
ture save  this  young,  hustling,  dollar-centred  New  York 
floral  decorator? 

"  Since  we  met,  guess  how  many  times  I've  crossed  the 
Atlantic.  Four  times!" 

Long-suffering  Atlantic! 

"And  about  yourself.  Still  going  piano,  piano  with 
books  and  things?" 

"Yes,  books  and  things,"  I  echoed. 

The  page  came  up  and  announced  Hamdi's  intention 
of  immediate  appearance. 

"And  how  is  that  charming  young  lady,  your  ward, 
Miss  Carlotta?"  continued  my  tormentor. 

"Yes,"  I  answered  hurriedly.  "A  charming  young 
lady.  You  used  to  give  her  sweets.  Have  you  no- 
ticed that  a  fondness  for  sugar  plums  induces  an  equa- 
nimity of  character?  It  also  spoils  the  teeth.  That  is 
why  the  front  teeth  of  all  American  women  are  so 
bad." 

I  must  be  endowed  with  the  low  cunning  of  the  fox, 
who,  I  am  told,  by  a  swift  turn  puts  his  pursuers  off  the 
scent.  The  learned  term  the  rhetorical  device  an  ignoratio 
denchi.  My  young  friend's  patriotism  rose  in  furious  de- 
fence of  his  countrywomen's  beauty.  I  looked  round  the 
luxuriously  furnished  vestibule,  wondering  from  which 
of  the  many  doors  the  object  of  my  hatred  would  emerge, 


212     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

and  my  young  friend's  talk  continued  to  ruffle  the  fringe  of 
my  mind. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  expecting  some  one  rather  badly," 
he  remarked  with  piercing  perceptiveness. 

"A  dull  acquaintance,"  said  I.  "  I  shall  be  sorry 
when  his  arrival  puts  an  end  to  our  engaging  conversa- 
tion." 

Then  the  lift  door  opened  and  Hamdi  stepped  out  like 
the  Devil  in  an  Alhambra  ballet. 

He  looked  at  my  card  and  looked  at  me.  He  bowed 
politely. 

"I  did  not  know  whom  I  should  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing,"  said  he  in  his  execrable  French.  "In  what  way 
can  I  be  of  service  to  Sir  Marcus  Ordeyne?" 

"What  have  you  done  with  Carlotta?"  I  asked,  glaring 
at  him. 

His  ignoble  small-pox  pitted  face  assumed  an  expression 
of  bland  inquiry. 

"Carlotta?" 

"Yes,"  said  I.    "Where  have  you  taken  her  to?" 

"  Explain  yourself,  Monsieur,"  said  Hamdi.  "  Do  I 
understand  that  Lady  Ordeyne  has  disappeared?" 

"Tell  me  what  you  have  done  with  her." 

His  crafty  features  grew  satanic;  his  long  fleshy  nose 
squirmed  like  the  proboscis  of  one  of  Orcagna's  fiends. 

"Really,  Monsieur,"  said  he,  with  a  hideous  leer — oh, 
words  are  impotent  to  express  the  ugliness  of  that  face! 
"  Really,  Monsieur,  supposing  I  had  stolen  Miladi,  you 
would  be  the  last  person  I  should  inform  of  her  where- 
abouts. You  are  simple,  Monsieur.  I  had  always  heard 
that  England  was  a  country  of  arcadian  innocence,  so 
unlike  my  own  black,  wicked  country,  and  now — " 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders  blandly,  "fen  suis  con- 
vaincu" 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     213 

"You  may  jeer,  Hamdi  Effendi,"  said  I  in  a  white  pas- 
sion of  anger.  "But  the  English  police  you  will  not  find 
so  arcadian." 

"Ah,  so  you  have  been  to  the  police?"  said  the  suave 
villain.  "You  have  gone  to  Scotland — Scotland  Place — 
Scotland — n'importe.  They  are  investigating  the  affair? 
I  thank  you  for  the  friendly  warning." 

"Warning!"  I  cried,  choked  with  indignation.  He  held 
up  a  soft,  fat  palm. 

"  Ah — it  is  not  a  warning  ?  Then,  Monsieur,  I  am  afraid 
you  have  committed  an  indiscretion  which  your  friends  in 
Scotland  Place  will  not  pardon  you.  You  would  not 
make  a  good  police  agent.  I  am  of  the  profession,  so  I 
know." 

I  advanced  a  step.  He  recoiled,  casting  a  quick  look 
backward  at  the  lift  just  then  standing  idle  with  open 
doors. 

"Hamdi  Effendi,"  I  cried,  "by  the  living  God,  if  you 
do  not  restore  me  my  wife — " 

But  then  I  stopped  short.  Hamdi  had  stepped  quickly 
backward  into  the  lift,  and  given  a  sign  to  the  attendant. 
The  door  slammed  and  all  I  could  do  was  to  shake  my  fist 
at  Hamdi's  boots  as  they  disappeared  upwards. 

I  remember  once  in  Italy  seeing  a  cat  playing  with  a 
partially  stunned  bat  which,  flying  low,  she  had  brought  to 
the  ground.  She  crouched,  patted  it,  made  it  move  a 
little,  patted  it  again  and  retired  on  her  haunches  prepar- 
ing for  a  spring.  Suddenly  the  bat  shot  vertically  into  the 
air. 

I  stared  at  the  ascending  lift  with  the  cat's  expression  of 
impotent  dismay  and  stupefaction.  It  was  inconceivably 
grotesque.  It  brought  into  my  tragedy  an  element  of  in- 
fernal farce.  I  became  conscious  of  peals  of  laughter,  and 
looking  round  beheld  the  American  doubled  up  in  a  saddle- 


214    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

bag  chair.    I  fled  from  the  vestibule  of  the  hotel  clothed 
from  head  to  foot  in  derision. 


I  am  at  home,  sitting  at  my  work-table,  walking  restlessly 
about  the  room,  stepping  out  into  the  raw  air  on  the  bal- 
cony and  looking  for  a  sign  down  the  dark  and  silent  road. 
I  curse  myself  for  my  folly  in  entering  the  Hotel  Metro- 
pole.  The  damned  Turk  held  me  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
He  made  mock  of  me  to  his  heart's  content.  .  .  .  And 
Carlotta  is  in  his  power.  I  grow  white  with  terror  when 
I  think  of  her  terror.  She  is  somewhere,  locked  up  in 
a  room,  in  this  great  city.  My  God!  Where  can  she 
be? 

The  police  must  find  her.  London  is  not  mediaeval 
Italy  for  women  to  be  gagged  and  carried  off  to  inacces- 
sible strongholds  in  defiance  of  laws  and  government.  I 
repeat  to  myself  that  she  must  come  back,  that  the  sober 
working  of  English  institutions  will  restore  her  to  my  arms, 
that  my  agony  is  a  matter  of  a  day  or  two  at  most,  that  the 
special  license  obtained  this  morning  and  now  lying  before 
me  is  not  the  document  of  irony  it  seems,  and  that  in  a 
week's  time  we  shall  look  back  on  this  nightmare  of  a  day 
with  a  smile,  and  look  forward  to  the  future  with  laughter 
in  our  hearts. 

But  to-night  I  am  very  lonely.  "  Loneliness,"  says  Epic- 
terus,  "is  a  certain  condition  of  the  helpless  man."  And 
I  am  helpless.  All  my  aid  lies  in  the  learning  in  those 
books;  and  all  the  learning  in  all  those  books  on  all  sides 
from  floor  to  ceiling  cannot  render  me  one  infinitesimal 
grain  of  practical  assistance.  If  only  Pasquale,  man  of 
action,  swift  intelligence,  were  here!  I  can  only  trust  to 
the  trained  methocls  of  the  unimaginative  machine  who 
has  set  out  to  trace  Carlotta  by  means  of  the  scar  on  her 
forehead  and  the  mole  behind  her  ear.  And  meanwhile 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     215 

I  am  very  lonely.  My  sole  friend,  to  whom  I  could  have 
turned,  Mrs.  McMurray,  is  still  at  Bude.  She  is  to  have 
a  child,  I  understand,  in  the  near  future,  and  will  stay  in 
Cornwall  till  the  confinement  is  over.  Her  husband,  even 
were  he  not  amid  the  midnight  stress  of  his  newspaper 
office,  I  should  shrink  from  seeking.  He  is  a  Niagara  of 
a  man.  Judith — I  can  go  to  her  no  more.  And  though 
Antoinette  has  wept  her  heart  out  all  day  long,  poor  soui, 
and  Stenson  has  conveyed  by  his  manner  his  respectful 
sympathy,  I  cannot  take  counsel  of  my  own  servants.  I 
have  gathered  into  my  arms  the  one-eyed  cat,  and  buried 
my  face  in  his  fur — where  Carlotta's  face  has  been  buried. 
"That's  the  way  I  should  like  to  be  kissed!"  Oh,  my 
dear,  my  dear,  were  you  here  now,  that  is  the  way  I  should 
kiss  you! 

I  have  gone  upstairs  and  wandered  about  her  room. 
Antoinette  has  prepared  it  for  her  reception  to-night,  as 
usual.  The  corner  of  the  bedclothes  is  turned  down,  and 
her  night-dress,  a  gossamer  thing  with  cherry  ribbons,  laid 
out  across  the  bed.  At  the  foot  lie  the  familiar  red  slippers 
with  the  audacious  heels;  her  dressing-gown  is  thrown  in 
readiness  over  the  back  of  a  chair;  even  the  brass  hot  water 
can  stands  in  the  basin — and  it  is  still  hot.  And  I  know 
that  the  foolish  woman  is  wide-awake  overhead  waiting 
for  her  darling.  I  kissed  the  pillow  still  fragrant  of  her 
where  her  head  rested  last  night,  and  I  went  downstairs 
with  a  lump  in  my  throat. 

Again  I  sit  at  my  work-table  and,  to  save  myself  from 
going  mad  with  suspense,  jot  down  in  my  diary*  the, 
things  that  have  happened.  Put  in  bald  words  they 
scarcely  seem  credible. 

*  It  will  be  borne  in  mind  that  I  am  writing  these  actual  pages, 
afterwards,  at  Verona,  amplifying  the  rough  notes  in  my  diary  .^ 
M.  O. 


21 6     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

A  sudden  clattering,  nerve-shaking,  strident  peal  at  the 
front-door  bell. 


I  flew  down  the  stairs.  It  was  news  of  Carlotta.  It  was 
Carlotta  herself  brought  back  to  me.  My  heart  swelled 
with  joy  as  if  it  would  burst.  I  knew  that  as  I  opened  the 
door  Carlotta  would  fall  laughing,  weeping,  sobbing  into 
my  arms. 

I  opened  the  door.  It  was  only  a  police  officer  in  plain 
clothes. 

"Sir  Marcus  Ordeyne?" 

"Yes." 

"We  have  traced  the  young  lady  all  right.  She  left 
London  by  the  two-twenty  Continental  express  from  Vic- 
toria with  Mr.  Sebastian  Pasquale." 


CHAPTER  XVIH 
November  ist. 

Five  days  ago  the  blow  fell,  and  I  am  only  now  recov- 
ering; only  now  awakening  to  the  horrible  pain  of  it. 

I  have  gone  about  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  Blurred  vis- 
ages of  men  with  far-away  voices  have  saluted  me  at  the 
club.  Innumerable  lines  of  print  which  my  eyes  have 
scanned  have  been  destitute  of  meaning.  I  have  forced 
myself  to  the  mechanical  task  of  copying  piles  of  rough 
notes  for  my  History;  I  have  been  able  to  bring  thereto 
not  an  atom  of  intelligence ;  popes,  princes,  painters  are  a 
category  of  disassociated  names,  less  evocative  of  ideas 
than  the  columns  in  the  Post  Office  London  Directory.  I 
have  stared  stupidly  into  the  fire  or  at  the  dripping  branches 
of  the  trees  opposite  my  windows.  I  have  walked  the 
streets  in  dull  misery.  I  have  sought  solace  in  the  Zoolog- 
ical Gardens. 

There  is  a  kindly  brown  bear  who  pleads  humanly  for 
buns,  and  her  I  have  fed  into  a  sort  of  friendship.  I  stand 
vacantly  in  front  of  the  cage  finding  in  the  beast  an  odd 
companionable  sympathy.  She  turns  her  head  on  one 
side,  regards  me  with  melting  brown  eyes,  and  squatting 
on  her  haunches  thrusts  her  paws  beseechingly  through 
the  bars.  Just  so  did  Carlotta  beseech  and  plead.  I  have 
bemused  myself  with  gnostic  and  metempsychosic  specu- 
lations. Carlotta  as  an  ordinary  human  being  with  an  im- 
mortal soul  did  not  exist,  and  what  I  had  known  and  loved 
was  but  a  simulacrum  of  female  form  containing  an  ele- 
mental spirit  doomed  to  be  ever  seeking  a  fresh  habitat. 
It  was  but  the  lingering  ghost  of  the  humanised  shell  of  air 

217 


21 8     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

that  was  seen  at  Victoria  station.  The  fateful  spirit,  un- 
trammelled by  the  conventions  of  men  and  actuated  by 
destinies  unintelligible  to  mortal  mind,  had  informed  the 
carcass  of  this  little  brown  bear,  which  looks  at  me  so 
strangely,  so  coaxingly,  with  Carlotta's  eyes  and  Carlotta's 
gestures.  I  asked  her  yesterday  to  come  back  to  me.  I 
said  that  the  house  was  empty;  that  the  rooms  ached  for 
the  want  of  her.  I  pleaded  so  passionately  and  the  eyes 
before  me  so  melted  that  I  thought  her  heart  was  touched. 
But  in  the  midst  of  it  all  another  visitor  came  up  and 
the  creature  uttered  a  whining  plaint  and  put  out  her 
paw  for  buns — by  which  token  I  felt  indeed  that  it  was 
Carlotta. 

I  have  accepted  the  blow  silently.  As  yet  I  have  told  no 
one.  I  have  made  no  inquiries.  When  a  man  is  betrayed 
by  his  best  friend  and  deserted  by  the  woman  he  loves,  time 
and  solitude  are  the  only  comforters.  Besides,  to  whom 
should  I  go  for  comfort  ?  I  have  lived  too  remote  from  my 
kind,  and  my  kind  heeds  me  not. 

Not  a  line  has  reached  me  from  Carlotta.  She  has  gone 
out  of  my  life  as  lightly  and  as  remorselessly  as  she  went 
out  of  Hamdi  Effendi's;  as  she  went,  for  aught  she  knew, 
out  of  that  of  the  unhappy  boy  who  lured  her  from  Alex- 
andretta.  If  she  heard  I  was  dead,  I  wonder  whether  she 
would  say:  "I  am  so  glad!" 

Whether  the  flight  was  planned  between  them,  or 
whether  Pasquale  waylaid  her  on  her  way  to  the  Avenue 
Road  and  then  and  there  proposed  that  she  should  ac- 
company him,  I  do  not  know.  It  matters  very  little.  She 
is  gone.  That  is  the  one  awful  fact  that  signifies.  No  ex- 
planations, pleas  for  forgiveness  could  make  me  suffer 
less.  Were  she  different  I  might  find  it  in  my  heart  to  hate 
her.  This  I  cannot  do.  How  can  one  hate  a  thing  devoid 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     219 

of  heart  and  soul  ?  But  one  can  love  it — God  knows  how 
blindly.  So  I  have  locked  the  door  of  Carlotta's  room 
and  the  key  is  in  my  possession.  It  shall  not  be  touched. 
It  shall  remain  just  as  she  left  it — and  I  shall  mourn  for 
her  as  for  one  dead. 

For  Pasquale — if  I  were  of  his  own  reversionary  type,  I 
should  follow  him  half  across  Europe  till  we  met,  and  then 
one  of  us  would  kill  the  other.  In  one  respect  he  resem- 
bles Carlotta.  He  is  destitute  of  the  moral  sense.  How 
else  to  solve  the  enigma  ?  How  else  to  reconcile  his  flam- 
boyant chivalry  towards  the  consumptive  washer- woman 
with  the  black  treachery  towards  me,  in  which  even  at  that 
very  moment  his  mind  must  have  been  steeped  ?  I  knew 
that  he  had  betrayed  many,  that  where  women  were  con- 
cerned no  considerations  of  honour  or  friendship  had 
stood  between  him  and  his  desires;  but  I  believed — for 
what  reason  save  my  own  egregious  vanity,  I  know  not — 
that  for  me  he  had  a  peculiar  regard.  I  believed  that  it 
was  an  idiosyncrasy  of  this  wolf  to  look  upon  my  sheep- 
fold  as  sacred  from  his  depredations.  I  was  ashamed  of 
any  doubts  that  crossed  my  mind  as  to  his  loyalty,  and  did 
not  hesitate  to  thrust  my  lamb  between  his  jaws.  And 
while  he  was  giving  the  lie  direct  to  my  faith,  I,  poor  fool, 
in  my  despair  was  seeking  madly  for  his  aid  in  the  deliv- 
erance of  my  darling  from  the  power  of  the  dog. 

I  have  felt  I  owe  Hamdi  EfTendi  an  apology;  for  it  is 
well  that,  in  the  midst  of  this  buffoon  tragedy  I  find  myself 
playing,  I  should  observe  occasionally  the  decencies  of 
conduct.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  was  he  not  amply  repaid 
for  moral  injury  by  the  pure  joy  he  must  have  felt  while 
torturing  me  with  his  banter  ?  For  all  the  deeper  suffering, 
I  am  conscious  of  writhing  under  lacerated  vanity  when  I 
think  of  that  grotesque  and  humiliating  blunder  in  the 
Hotel  Metropole. 


22O    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

November  zd. 

I  have  received  news  of  the  death  of  old  Simon  Mc- 
Quhatty.  In  my  few  lucid  moments  of  late  I  had  been 
thinking  of  seeking  his  kindly  presence.  Now  Gossip 
Death  has  taken  him  out  across  the  moor.  Now,  dear 
old  pagan,  he  is 

"  Rolled  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course 
With  rocks  and  stones  and  trees." 

November  3d. 

Antoinette  came  up  this  morning  with  a  large  card- 
board box  addressed  to  Carlotta.  The  messenger  who 
brought  it  was  waiting  downstairs. 

"I  came  to  Monsieur  to  know  whether  I  should  send 
it  back,"  said  Antoinette,  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

"No,"  said  I,  "leave  it  here." 

From  the  furrier's  label,  I  saw  that  the  box  contained 
some  furs  I  had  ordered  for  Carlotta  a  fortnight  ago — she 
shivered  so,  poor  child,  in  this  wintry  climate. 

"But,  Monsieur,"  began  Antoinette,  "the  poor  angel — " 

"May  want  it  in  heaven,"  said  I. 

The  good  woman  stared. 

"We'll  be  like  the  ancient  Egyptians,  Antoinette,"  I 
explained,  "who  placed  food  and  wine  and  raiment  and 
costly  offerings  in  the  tombs  of  the  departed,  so  that  their 
shades  could  come  and  enjoy  them  for  all  eternity.  We'll 
have  to  make  believe,  Antoinette,  that  this  is  a  tomb,  for 
one  can't  rear  a  pyramid  hi  London,  though  it  is  a  desert 
sufficiently  vast;  and  the  little  second  floor  room  is  the 
inner  sanctuary  where  the  body  lies  in  silence  embalmed 
with  sweet  spices  and  swathed  in  endless  bands  of  linen." 

"But  Mademoiselle  is  not  dead?"  cried  Antoinette, 
with  a  shiver.  "How  can  Monsieur  talk  of  such  things? 
Jt  makes  me  fear,  the  way  Monsieur  speaks." 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeync     221 

"It  makes  me  fear,  too,  Antoinette,"  said  I,  gravely. 

When  she  had  gone  I  took  the  box  of  furs  upstairs  and 
laid  it  unopened  on  Carlotta's  bed  and  came  away,  relock- 
ing  the  door  behind  me. 

November  gth. 

I  have  formed  a  great  resolution.  I  have  devoted  the 
week  to  the  envisagement  of  things,  and  while  I  lay  awake 
last  night  the  solution  came  to  me  as  something  final  and 
irrevocable.  Mistrusting  the  counsels  of  the  night,  when 
the  brain  is  unduly  excited  by  nervous  insomnia,  I  have 
applied  the  test  of  a  day's  cold  reason. 

I  have  broken  a  woman's  heart.  I  have  spurned  the 
passionate  love  of  a  woman  who  has  been  near  and  dear 
to  me;  a  woman  of  great  nature;  a  woman  of  subtle  brain 
who  has  been  my  chosen  companion,  my  equal  partner  in 
any  intellectual  path  I  chose  to  tread;  a  sensitive  lady,  with 
all  the  graciousness  of  soul  that  term  conveys.  Heaven 
knows  what  a  woman  can  see  in  me  to  love.  I  look  in  the 
glass  at  my  bony,  hawk-like  face,  on  which  the  stamp  of 
futility  seems  eternally  set,  and  I  am  seized  with  a  pro- 
digious wonder;  but  the  fact  remains  that  to  me  unlovely 
and  unworthy  has  been  given  that  thing  without  price,  a 
woman's  love.  I  remember  Pasquale  laughing  merrily  at 
this  valuation.  He  said  the  love  of  women  was  as  cheap 
as  dirt,  and  the  only  use  for  it  was  to  make  mud  pies.  The 
damned  cynical  villain!  "Always  reflect,"  said  he,  on  an- 
other occasion,  "that  although  a  man  may  be  as  ugly  as 
sin,  the  probability  is  that  he  is  just  as  pleasant.  Beauties 
will  find  hitherto  unsuspected  amenities  in  Beasts  till  the 
end  of  time."  But  I  am  such  a  poor  and  sorry  Beast, 
without  the  chance  of  a  transformation;  a  commonplace 
Beast,  dull  and  didactic;  a  besotted,  purblind,  despicable 
Beast!  Yet  Judith  loved  me.  Instead  of  thanking  on  my 


222     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

knees  the  high  gods  for  the  boon  conferred,  I  rejected  it, 
and  went  mad  for  craving  of  the  infinitely  lesser  glory  of 
Carlotta's  baby  lips  and  gold-bronze  hair.  I  have  broken 
Judith's  heart.  I  will  expiate  the  crime  I  have  committed. 

Expiate  the  crime!  The  realisation  of  the  meaning  of 
the  words  covers  me  with  shame.  As  if  what  I  propose 
will  be  a  sorry  penance!  That  is  the  danger  of  a  man 
thinking,  as  I  have  always  done,  in  metaphors.  It  has 
given  me  my  loose,  indirect  views  of  life,  of  myself,  of  those 
around  me.  If  I  had  advice  to  offer  to  a  young  man,  I 
should  say:  "Learn  to  think  straight."  Expiate,  indeed!  I 
will  go  to  her  and  make  confession.  I  will  tell  her  that 
awful  loneliness  is  crushing  my  soul.  I  will  kneel  before 
her  and  beseech  her  of  her  great  woman's  goodness  to  give 
me  her  love  again,  and  to  be  my  helpmeet  and  my  compan- 
ion who  will  be  cherished  with  all  that  there  is  of  loyalty 
in  me  to  her  life's  end.  She  will  pity  me  a  little,  for  I  have 
suffered,  and  I  will  pity  her  tenderly,  in  deep  sincerity, 
and  our  life  together  will  be  based  on  that  all-understand- 
ing which  signifies  all-forgiveness.  And  it  shall  be  a  real 
life  together.  I  used  to  smile,  in  a  superior  way,  at  her 
dread  of  solitude.  Heaven  forgive  me.  I  did  not  then 
know  its  terrors.  It  comforted  for  the  first  few  benumbed 
days,  but  now  it  is  gathering  around  me  like  a  mysterious 
and  appalling  force.  I  crave  the  human  presence  in  my 
home.  I  need  the  woman's  presence  in  my  heart. 

We  shall  live  together  then  as  man  and  wife,  in  defiance 
of  the  world.  Let  the  moralists  blame  us.  We  shall  not 
care.  It  will  make  little  social  difference  to  Judith,  and  as 
for  myself,  have  I  not  already  inflicted  public  outrage  on 
society?  Does  not  my  Aunt  Jessica  regard  me  as  a 
wringer  of  the  public  conscience,  and  does  not  my  Cousin 
Rosalie  mention  me  with  a  shudder  of  horror  in  her  tepid 
prayers  ?  If  I  really  give  them  cause  for  reprobation  they 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     223 

will  be  neither  wiser,  nor  better,  nor  sorrier.  And  if  the 
baronetcy  flickers  out  in  unseemly  odour,  I  for  one  shall 
know  that  the  odour  is  sweeter  than  that  wherein  it  was 
lighted,  when  my  great-grandfather  earned  the  radiance 
by  services  rendered  at  Brighton  to  His  Royal  Highness 
the  Prince  Regent.  This  is  the  only  way  in  which  I  can 
make  Judith  reparation,  the  only  way  in  which  I  can  find 
comfort.  We  shall  travel.  Italy,  beloved  of  Judith,  is  call- 
ing me.  Probably  Florence  will  be  our  settled  home.  I 
shall  give  up  this  house  of  madness.  The  clean  sweet  love 
of  Judith  will  purify  my  heart  of  this  poisonous  passion, 
and  in  the  end  there  will  be  peace. 

I  have  taken  Carlotta's  photograph  from  its  frame  and 
cast  it  into  the  fire,  thus  burning  her  for  her  witchcraft.  I 
watched  the  flames  leap  and  curl.  The  last  look  she  gave 
me  before  they  licked  away  her  face  had  its  infinite  allure- 
ment, its  devilish  sorcery  so  intensified  in  the  fierce  yel- 
low light,  that  the  yearning  for  her  clutched  me  by  the 
throat  and  shook  me  through  all  my  being. 

But  it  is  over  now.  I  have  done  with  Carlotta.  If  she 
thinks  I  am  going  to  sit  and  let  the  wind  which  comes  over 
Primrose  Hill  drive  me  mad  like  Gastibelza,  Vhomme  d  la 
carabine,  in  Victor  Hugo's  poem,  she  is  vastly  mistaken. 
From  this  hour  henceforth  I  swear  she  is  nothing  to  me; 
I  will  eat  and  sleep  and  laugh  as  if  she  had  never  existed. 
Polyphemus,  curled  up  in  Carlotta's  old  place  on  the  sofa, 
regards  me  with  his  sardonic  eye.  He  is  an  evil,  incredu- 
lous, mocking  beast,  who  a  few  centuries  ago  would  have 
been  burned  with  his  late  mistress? 

I  am  sane  and  happier  now  that  I  have  come  to  my  ir- 
revocable determination. 

To-morrow  I  go  to  Judith. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

November  loth. 

I  had  to  ring  twice  before  Judith's  servant  opened  the 
flat  door. 

"Mrs.  Mainwaring  is  engaged  just  at  present,  Sir  Mar- 
cus." 

"Ask  her  if  I  can  come  in  and  wait,  as  I  have  something 
of  importance  to  say  to  her." 

She  left  me  standing  in  the  passage,  a  thing  that  had 
never  before  occurred  to  me  in  Judith's  establishment, 
and  presently  returned  with  her  answer.  Would  I  mind 
waiting  in  the  dining-room?  I  entered.  The  table  was 
littered  with  sheets  of  her  statistical  work  and  odd  bits  of 
silk  and  lining.  A  type- writer  stood  at  one  end  and  a  sew- 
ing-machine at  the  other.  On  the  writing-desk  by  the 
window,  in  the  midst  of  a  mass  of  letters  and  account- 
books,  rested  a  large  bowl  filled  with  magnificent  blooms 
of  white  and  yellow  chrysanthemums.  A  volume  of  Dante 
lay  open  face  downwards  on  the  corner.  It  did  my  heart 
good  to  see  this  untidiness,  so  characteristic  of  Judith,  so 
familiar,  so  intimate.  She  had  taken  her  trouble  bravely, 
I  reflected.  The  ordinary  daily  task  had  not  been  left  un- 
done. Through  all  she  had  preserved  her  valiant  sanity. 
I  felt  rebuked  for  my  own  loss  of  self-control. 

I  was  about  to  turn  away  from  the  litter  of  the  desk, 
when  my  eye  caught  sight  of  an  envelope  bearing  a  French 
stamp  and  addressed  in  Pasquale's  unmistakable  hand- 
writing. As  there  seemed  to  be  a  letter  inside,  I  did  not 
take  it  up  to  examine  it  more  closely.  The  glance  was 

224 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     225 

enough  to  assure  me  that  it  came  from  Pasquale.  Why 
should  he  be  corresponding  with  Judith  ?  I  walked  away 
puzzled.  Was  it  a  justification,  a  confession,  a  plea  to  her 
as  my  friend  to  obtain  my  forgiveness?  If  there  is  one 
thing  more  irritating  than  another  it  is  to  light  accident- 
ally upon  a  mystery  affecting  oneself  in  a  friend's  corre- 
spondence. One  can  no  more  probe  deeply  into  it  than  one 
can  steal  the  friend's  spoons.  It  seems  an  indiscretion  tD 
have  noticed  it,  an  unpardonable  impertinence  to  subject 
it  to  conjecture.  In  spite  of  my  abhorring  the  impulse  of 
curiosity,  the  sweeping,  flaunting,  swaggering  handwriting 
of  Pasquale  worried  me. 

Judith  came  in,  looking  much  as  she  had  done  on  the 
occasion  of  my  last  visit,  worn  and  anxious,  with  a  strange 
expression  in  her  eyes. 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,"  she  said,  ex- 
tending a  lifeless  hand. 

I  raised  it  to  my  lips. 

"I  would  have  gladly  waited  all  day  to  see  you,  Ju- 
dith," I  said. 

"Really?" 

She  laughed  in  an  odd  way. 

"And  idle  speech  from  me  to  you  at  the  present  time 
would  be  an  outrage,"  I  answered.  "  I  have  passed  through 
much  since  I  saw  you  last." 

"So  have  I,"  said  Judith.  "More  than  you  imagine. 
Well,"  she  continued  as  I  bowed  my  head  accepting  the 
rebuke,  "what  have  you  got  so  important  to  tell  me?" 

" Much,"  said  I.  "In  the  first  place  you  must  be  aware 
of  what  has  happened,  for  I  can't  help  seeing  there  a  letter 
from  Pasquale." 

She  glanced  swiftly  at  the  desk  and  back  again  at 
me. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "he  is  in  Paris." 
15 


226    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

I  was  amazed  at  her  nonchalance. 

"Has  he  told  you  nothing?" 

"Perhaps  Sir  Marcus  Ordeyne  would  like  to  see  his 
letter,"  she  said,  ironically. 

"You  know  perfectly  well  that  I  would  not  read  it," 
said  I. 

Judith  laughed  again,  and  rolled  her  handkerchief  into 
a  little  ball  between  her  nervous  fingers. 

"Forgive  me,"  she  said.  "I  like  to  see  the  grand  sei- 
gneur in  you  now  and  then.  It  puts  me  in  mind  of  happier 
days.  But  about  I'asquale — the  only  thing  he  tells  me  is 
that  he  is  not  able  to  execute  a  commission  for  me.  He 
told  me  on  the  night  he  drove  me  home  that  he  was  going 
to  Paris,  and  I  asked  him  to  get  me  some  cosmetic.  Car- 
mine Badouin,  if  you  want  to  know.  I  have  got  to  rouge 
now  before  I  am  fit  to  be  seen  in  the  street.  I  am  quite 
frank  about  it." 

"Then  you  knov*  nothing  of  Carlotta?"  I  cried. 

"Carlotta?" 

"She  eloped  with  that  double-dyed,  damned,  infernal 
villain,  the  day  after  I  saw  you." 

Judith  looked  at  me  for  a  moment,  then  closed  her  eyes 
and  turned  her  head  away,  resting  her  hand  on  the  table. 
My  indignation  waxed  hot  against  the  scoundrel.  How 
dare  he  write  casual  letters  to  Judith  about  Carmine  Ba- 
douin with  his  treachery  on  his  conscience?  I  know  the 
terms  of  flippant  grace  in  which  the  knave  couched  this 
precious  epistle.  And  I  could  see  Carlotta  reading  over 
his  shoulder  and  clapping  her  hands  and  cooing:  "Oh, 
that  is  so  funny!" 

When  I  had  told  Judith  the  outlines  of  the  story,  pacing 
up  and  down  the  little  room  while  she  remained  motionless 
by  the  table,  she  put  out  her  hand  to  me,  and  in  a  low 
voice,  and  with  still  averted  eyes  said  that  she  was  sorry, 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     227 

deeply  sorry.  Her  tone  rang  so  true  and  loyal  that  my 
heart  throbbed  with  quick  appreciation  of  her  high  nature, 
and  I  wrung  her  outstretched  hand. 

"  God  bless  you,  Judith,"  I  cried,  fervently.  "  Bless  you 
for  your  sweet  sympathy.  Be  sorry  for  me  only  as  for  a  man 
who  has  passed  through  the  horrors  of  delirium.  But  for 
me  as  I  stand  before  you  now,  I  ask  you  not  to  be  sorry. 
I  have  come  to  bring  you,  if  I  can,  dear  Judith,  a  measure 
of  gladness,  perhaps  of  happiness." 

She  wrenched  herself  free  from  me,  and  a  terrified  cry 
of  "Marcus!"  checked  my  dithyrambic  appeal.  She 
shrank  away  so  that  a  great  corner  of  the  dining-table 
separated  us,  and  she  stared  at  me  as  though  my  words 
had  been  the  affrighting  utterance  of  a  madman. 

"Marcus!  What  do  you  mean?"  she  cried,  with  an  un- 
natural shrillness  in  her  voice. 

"I  mean,"  said  I,  "I  mean — I  mean  that  'crushed  by 
three  days'  pressure,  my  three  days'  love  lies  slain.'  Time 
has  withered  him  at  the  root.  I  have  buried  him  deep  in 
unconsecrated  ground,  like  a  vampire,  with  a  stake  through 
his  heart.  And  I  have  come  back  to  you,  Judith,  humbly 
to  crave  your  forgiveness  and  your  love — to  tell  you  I  have 
changed,  dear— -to  offer  you  all  I  have  in  the  world  if 
you  will  but  take  it — to  give  you  my  life,  my  daily,  hourly 
devotion.  My  God!"  I  cried,  "don't  you  believe  me?" 

She  still  stared  at  me  in  a  frightened  way,  leaning 
heavier  on  the  table.  Her  lips  twitched  before  they  could 
frame  the  words: 

"Yes,  I  believe  you.    You  have  never  lied  to  me." 

"Then  in  the  name  of  love  and  heaven,"  I  cried,  "why 
do  you  look  at  me  like  that?" 

She  trembled,  evidently  suppressing  something  with  in- 
tense effort,  whether  bitter  laughter,  indignation  or  a  pas- 
sionate outburst  I  could  not  tell. 


228     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"You  ask  why?"  she  said,  unsteadily.  "Because  you 
seem  like  the  angel  of  the  flaming  vengeance." 

At  these  astounding  words  it  was  my  turn  to  look  amazed. 

"Vengeance?"  I  echoed.  "What  wrong  have  you  done 
me  or  any  living  creature  ?  Come,  my  dear,"  and  I  moved 
nearer  by  seating  myself  on  the  corner  of  the  table,  close 
to  the  type- writer,  and  leaning  towards  her,  "let  us  look  at 
this  thing  soberly.  If  ever  a  man  had  need  of  woman  I 
have  need  of  you.  I  can  live  alone  no  longer.  We  must 
share  one  home  henceforth  together.  We  can  snap  our 
fingers  at  the  world,  you  and  I.  If  you  have  anything  to 
say  against  the  proposal,  let  us  discuss  it  calmly." 

Judith's  slender  figure  vibrated  like  a  cord  strung  to 
breaking-point.  Her  voice  vibrated. 

"Yes,  let  us  discuss  it  calmly.  But  not  here.  The 
sight  of  you  sitting  in  the  middle  of  my  life,  between  the 
sewing-machine  and  the  type-writer,  is  getting  on  my 
nerves.  Let  us  go  into  the  drawing-room.  There  is  an 
atmosphere  of  calm  there — "  her  voice  quavered  in  a  queer 
little  choke — "of  sabbatical  calm." 

I  slid  quickly  from  the  table  and  put  my  arm  round  her 
waist. 

"Tell  me,  Judith,  what  is  amiss  with  you." 

She  broke  away  from  me  roughly,  thrusting  me  back. 

"  Nothing.  A  woman's  nothing,  if  you  understand  what 
that  means.  Come  into  the  drawing-room." 

I  opened  the  door;  she  passed  out  and  I  followed  her 
along  the  passage.  She  preceded  me  into  the  drawing- 
room,  and  I  stayed  for  a  moment  to  close  the  door,  fum- 
bling with  the  handle  which  has  been  loose  for  some 
months.  When  I  turned  and  had  made  a  couple  of  steps 
forward,  I  halted  involuntarily  under  the  shock  of  a  con- 
siderable surprise. 

We  were  not  alone.    Standing  on  the  hearth-rug,  his 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     229 

hands  behind  his  back,  his  brows  bent  on  me  benevolently 
was  a  man  in  clerical  attire.  He  looked  ostentatiously, 
exaggeratedly  clerical.  His  clerical  frock-coat  was  of  in- 
ordinate length;  his  boots  were  aggravatingly  clump- 
soled;  by  a  very  large  white  tie,  masking  the  edges  of  a 
turned-down  collar,  he  proclaimed  himself  Evangelical. 
An  otherwise  clean-shaven  florid  face  was  adorned  with 
brown  side-whiskers  growing  rather  long.  A  bald,  shiny 
head  topped  a  fringe  of  brown  hair. 

I  stared  at  this  unexpected  gentleman  for  a  second  or 
two,  and  then,  recovering  my  self-possession,  looked  en- 
quiringly at  Judith. 

"Sir  Marcus,"  she  said,  "let  me  introduce  my  husband, 
Mr.  Rupert  Mainwaring." 

Her  husband!  This  benevolent  Evangelical  parson  her 
husband!  But  the  brilliant  gallant  who  had  dazzled  her 
eyes  ?  The  dissolute  scoundrel  that  had  wrecked  her  life  ? 
Where  was  he?  Dumfounded,  I  managed  to  bow  po- 
litely enough,  but  my  stupefaction  was  covered  by  Judith 
rushing  across  the  room  and  uttering  a  strange  sound 
which  resolved  itself  into  a  shrill,  hysterical  laugh  as  she 
reached  the  door  which  she  opened  and  slammed  behind 
her.  I  heard  her  scream  hysterically  in  the  passage;  then 
the  slam  of  another  door ;  and  the  silence  told  me  that  she 
had  shut  herself  in  her  bedroom.  Disregarding  the  new 
husband's  presence,  I  rang  the  bell,  and  the  servant  who 
had  left  her  kitchen  on  hearing  the  scream  entered  imme- 
diately. 

"  Go  to  your  mistress.    She  is  ill,"  said  I. 

The  maid  hurriedly  departed.  The  parson  and  I  looked 
at  one  another. 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  I,  "that  my  presence  is  unhappily 
an  intrusion.  I  hope  to  make  your  better  acquaintance  on 
another  occasion." 


230    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"Oh,  please  don't  go,"  said  he,  "my  wife  is  only  a  little 
upset  and  will  soon  recover.  I  beg  that  you  will  excuse 
her.  Besides,  I  should  like  to  have  a  talk  with  you." 

He  offered  me  a  chair,  my  own  chair,  the  comfortable, 
broad-seated  Empire  chair  I  had  given  Judith  as  a  birth- 
day present  years  ago,  the  chair  in  which  I  had  invaria- 
bly sat.  He  did  it  with  the  manner  of  the  master  of  the 
house,  a  most  courteous  gentleman.  The  situation  was 
fantastic.  Some  ingenious  devil  must  have  conceived  it 
by  way  of  pandering  to  the  after-dinner  humour  of  the 
high  gods.  As  I  sat  down  I  rubbed  my  eyes.  Was  this 
brown- whiskered,  bald-headed  clerical  gentleman  real? 
The  rubbing  of  my  eyes  dispelled  no  hallucination.  He 
was  flesh  and  blood  and  still  regarded  me  urbanely.  It 
was  horrible.  The  desertion  of  the  scoundrelly  husband, 
who  I  thought  was  lost  somewhere  in  the  cesspool  of  Eu- 
rope, was  the  basis,  the  sanction  of  the  relations  between 
Judith  and  myself;  and  here  was  this  reverend,  respectable 
man  apologising  for  his  wife  and  begging  me  to  be  seated 
in  my  own  chair.  The  remark  of  Judith's  that  I  should 
find  sabbatical  calm  in  the  drawing-room  occurred  to  me, 
and  I  had  to  grip  the  arms  of  the  chair  to  prevent  myself 
from  joining  Judith  in  her  hysterics. 

The  appearance  of  the  husband  in  his  legendary  colours 
of  rascality  would  have  been  a  shock.  The  sudden  scat- 
tering of  my  plans  for  Judith's  happiness  I  should  have 
viewed  with  consternation.  But  it  would  have  been  nor- 
mal. For  him,  however,  to  appear  in  the  guise  of  an  Evan- 
gelical clergyman,  the  very  last  kind  of  individual  to  be 
associated  with  Judith,  was,  I  repeat,  horribly  fantastic. 

"I  believe,  Sir  Marcus,"  said  he,  deliberately  parting 
the  tails  of  his  exaggerated  frock-coat  and  sitting  down 
near  me,  "that  you  are  a  very  great  friend  of  my 
wife." 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     231 

I  murmured  that  I  had  known  Mrs.  Mainwarmg  for 
some  years. 

"You  are  doubtless  acquainted  with  her  unhappy  his- 
tory." 

"I  have  heard  her  speak  of  it,"  said  I. 

"You  must  then  share  her  surprise  in  seeing  me  here 
to-day.  I  should  like  to  assure  you,  as  representing  her 
friends  and  society  and  that  sort  of  thing,  as  I  have  assured 
her,  that  I  have  not  taken  this  step  without  earnest  prayer 
and  seeking  the  counsel  of  Almighty  God." 

I  am  by  no  means  a  bigoted  pietist,  but  to  hear  a  person 
talk  lightly  about  seeking  the  counsel  of  Almighty  God 
jars  upon  my  sense  of  taste.  I  stiffened  at  the  sanctimo- 
nious tone  in  which  the  words  were  uttered. 

"  You  have  without  doubt  very  good  reasons  for  coming 
back  into  the  circle  of  her  life,"  said  I. 

"The  best  of  all  reasons,"  he  replied,  caressing  a  brown 
whisker,  "namely,  that  I  am  a  Christian." 

I  liked  him  less  and  less. 

"Is  that  the  reason,  may  I  ask,  why  you  remained  away 
from  her  all  these  years  ?  " 

"I  deserve  the  scoff,"  said  he.  "Those  were  days  of 
sin.  I  deserve  every  humiliation  that  can  be  put  upon  me. 
But  I  have  since  found  the  grace  of  God.  I  found  it  at 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  on  the  eighth  of  January, 
eighteen  hundred  and — " 

"Never  mind  the  year,"  I  interrupted. 

My  gorge  rose.  The  man  was  a  sanctimonious  Chad- 
band.  He  had  come  with  nefarious  designs  on  Judith's 
slender  capital.  I  saw  knavery  in  the  whites  of  his  up- 
turned eyes. 

"I  should  be  glad,"  I  continued  quickly,  "if  you  would 
come  to  the  point  of  the  conversation  you  desire  to  have 
with  me.  I  presume  it  concerns  Mrs.  Mainwaring.  She 


232    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

has  reconciled  herself  to  circumstances  and  has  found 
means  to  regulate  her  life  with  a  certain  measure  of  con- 
tentment and  comfort  until  now,  when  you  suddenly  in- 
troduce a  disturbing  factor.  You  appear  to  wish  to  tell  me 
your  reasons  for  doing  so — and  I  can't  see  what  the  grace 
of  God  has  to  do  with  it." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  shot  out  both  hands  in  the 
awkward  gesture  of  an  inspired  English  prophet. 

" But  it  has  everything  to  do  with  it!  It  is  the  beginning 
and  end,  core  and  kernel,  root  and  branch  of  the  matter. 
It  is  the  grace  of  God  that  checked  me  in  the  full  career  of 
my  wickedness.  It  is  the  grace  of  God  that  has  lighted  my 
path  ever  -since  to  holier  things.  It  is  the  grace  of  God 
that  has  changed  me  from  what  I  was  to  what  I  am.  It  is 
the  grace  of  God  that  has  brought  me  here  to  ask  pardon 
on  my  knees  of  the  woman  I  have  wronged.  The  grace  of 
God  and  of  his  son  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  which  came 
upon  me  in  a  great  light  on  that  January  afternoon  even  as 
it  did  upon  Saul  of  Tarsus.  The  grace  of  God  has  every- 
thing to  do  with  it." 

"Mr.  Mainwaring,"  said  I,  "such  talk  is  either  blas- 
phemous or — " 

He  did  not  allow  me  to  state  the  alternative,  but  caught 
up  the  word  in  a  great  cry. 

"Blasphemous!  Why,  man  alive!  for  what  are  you 
taking  me  ?  Do  you  think  this  is  some  unholy  jest  ?  Can't 
you  see  that  I  am  in  deadly  earnest?  Come  and  see  me 
where  I  live — "  he  caught  me  by  the  arm,  as  if  he  would 
drag  me  away  then  and  there,  "among  the  poor  in  Hox- 
ton.  You  scarcely  know  where  Hoxton  is — I  didn't  when 
I  was  a  man  of  ease  like  yourself — that  wilderness  of  grey 
despair  where  the  sun  of  the  world  scarcely  shines,  let 
alone  the  Light  of  God.  Come  and  see  for  yourself,  man, 
whether  I  am  lying!" 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     233 

Then  it  dawned  upon  me  that  the  man  had  been  talking 
from  innermost  depths,  that  he  was  almost  terrifyingly 
sincere. 

"I  must  ask  you  to  pardon  me,"  said  I,  "for  appearing 
to  doubt  your  good  faith.  You  must  attribute  it  to  my 
entire  unfamiliarity  with  the  terms  of  Evangelical  piety." 

He  looked  at  me  queerly  for  a  moment,  and  then,  in  the 
quiet  tones  of  a  man  of  the  world,  said,  smiling  pleasantly : 

"Very  many  years  ago  I  had  the  pleasure  of  knowing 
your  grandfather,  the  late  baronet.  May  I  say  that  you 
remind  me  of  him?" 

I  have  never  heard  an  apology  more  gracefully  and  tact- 
fully accepted.  For  an  unregenerate  second  he  had  be- 
come the  gallant  Rupert  Mainwaring  again,  and  showed 
me  wherein  might  lie  his  attraction. 

"  Pray  be  seated,"  said  he,  more  gravely,  "  and  allow  me 
to  explain." 

He  unfolded  his  story.  It  was  well,  said  he,  that  an  out- 
sider (I  an  outsider  in  that  familiar  room!)  should  hear  it. 
I  was  at  liberty  to  make  it  public.  Indeed,  publicity  was 
what  he  earnestly  craved.  As  far  as  my  memory  serves 
me,  for  my  wits  were  whirling  as  I  listened,  the  following 
is  an  epitome  of  his  narrative : 

He  had  been  a  man  of  sin — not  only  in  the  vague  eccle- 
siastical sense,  but  in  downright,  practical  earnest.  He 
had  committed  every  imaginable  crime,  save  the  odd  few 
that  lead  to  penal  servitude  and  the  gallows.  He  drank, 
he  betrayed  women,  he  cheated  at  cards,  he  had  an  evil 
reputation  on  the  turf.  His  companions  were  chosen  from 
the  harlotry  and  knavery  of  the  civilised  world.  He  had 
lured  Judith  from  her  first  husband,  thus  breaking  his 
heart,  poor  man,  so  that  he  died  soon  after.  He  had  mar- 
ried Judith,  and  had  deserted  her  for  a  barmaid  whom  in- 
her  turn  he  had  abandoned.  He  wallowed,  to  use  his  own 


234    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

expression,  in  the  trough  of  iniquity.  He  was,  as  I  had  al- 
ways understood,  about  as  choice  a  blackguard  as  it  would 
be  possible  to  meet  outside  a  gaol.  One  day  a  pretty  girl, 
whom  he  had  been  following  in  the  street,  unwittingly  en- 
ticed him  into  a  revivalist  meeting.  He  described  that 
meeting  so  vividly  that  had  my  stupefied  mind  been  capa- 
ble of  fresh  emotions,  I  too  might  have  been  converted  at 
second  hand  by  the  revivalist  preacher.  He  repeated  parts 
of  the  sermon,  rose  to  his  feet,  waved  his  arms,  thundered 
out  the  commonplaces  of  Salvation  Army  Christianity,  as 
if  he  had  made  an  amazing  theological  discovery.  It  was 
pathetic.  It  was  ludicrous.  It  was  also  inconceivably 
painful.  At  last  he  mopped  his  forehead  and  shiny  head 

"  Before  that  meeting  was  over  I  was  on  my  knees  pray- 
ing beside  the  girl  whom  I  had  designed  to  ruin.  I  went 
into  the  streets  a  converted  man,  filled  with  the  grace  of 
God.  I  resolved  to  devote  my  life  to  saving  souls  for 
Christ.  My  old  habits  of  sin  fell  away  from  me  like  a  gar- 
ment. I  studied  for  the  ministry.  I  am  now  in  deacon's 
orders,  and  I  am  the  incumbent  of  a  little  tin  mission 
church  in  Hoxton.  God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way,  Sir 
Marcus." 

"He  is  generally  credited  with  doing  so,"  said  I,  stu- 
pidly. 

"You  are  doubtless  wondering,  Sir  Marcus,"  he  went 
on,  "  why  I  placed  such  a  long  interval  between  my  awak- 
ening and  my  communicating  with  my  wife.  I  set  myself 
a  period  of  probation.  I  desired  to  be  assured  of  God's 
will.  It  was  essential  that  I  should  test  my  strength  of 
purpose,  and  my  power  of  making  a  life's  atonement,  as 
far  as  the  things  of  this  world  are  concerned,  for  the  wrongs 
I  have  inflicted  on  her.  I  have  come  now  to  offer  her  a 
Christian  home." 

I  looked  at  him  open-mouthed. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     235 

"  Do  you  expect  Judith  to  go  and  live  with  you  as  your 
ivife,  in  Hoxton?"  I  asked,  bluntly. 

"  Why  not  ?    She  is  my  wife." 

I  rose  and  walked  about  the  room  hi  agitation.  Some- 
how such  a  contingency  had  not  entered  my  bewildered 
head. 

"Why  not,  Sir  Marcus?"  he  repeated. 

"Because  Judith  isn't  that  kind  of  woman  at  all,"  I 
said,  desperately.  "She  doesn't  like  Hoxton,  and  would 
be  as  much  out  of  place  in  a  tin-mission  church  as  I  should 
be  in  a  cavalry  charge." 

"God  will  see  to  her  fitness,"  said  he,  gravely.  "To 
him  all  things  are  easy." 

"But  she  has  considerable  philosophic  doubt  as  to  his 
personal  existence,"  I  cried. 

He  smiled  prophetically  and  waved  away  her  doubt 
with  a  gesture. 

"I  have  no  fears  on  that  score,"  he  observed. 

"But  it  is  preposterous,"  I  objected  once  more,  chang- 
ing my  ground;  "Judith  craves  the  arrears  of  gaiety  and 
laughter  which  your  conduct  caused  life  to  leave  owing  to 
her.  She  loves  bright  dresses,  cigarettes,  and  wine  and  the 
things  that  are  anathema  in  an  Evangelical  household." 

"  My  wife  will  find  the  gaiety  and  laughter  of  holiness," 
replied  the  fanatic.  "  She  will  not  be  stinted  of  money  to 
dress  herself  with  becoming  modesty;  and  as  for  alcohol 
and  tobacco,  no  one  knows  better  than  myself  how  easy  it 
is  to  give  them  up." 

"You  seem  as  merciless  in  your  virtues  as  you  were  in 
your  vices,"  said  I. 

"I  have  to  bring  souls  to  Christ,"  he  answered. 

"That  doesn't  appear  to  be  the  way,"  I  retorted,  "to 
bring  them." 

"Pray  remember,  Sir  Marcus,"  said  he,  bending  his 


236     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

brows  upon  me,  "  that  I  did  not  ask  you  for  suggestions  as 
to  the  conduct  of  my  ministry." 

"The  general  methods  you  adopt  in  the  case  of  your 
congregation,"  said  I,  "are  matters  of  perfect  indifference 
to  me.  But  I  cannot  see  Judith  imprisoned  for  life  in  a 
tin  church  without  a  protest.  Your  proposal  reminds  me 
of  the  Siennese  who  owed  a  victorious  general  more  than 
they  could  possibly  repay.  The  legend  goes  that  they 
hanged  him,  in  order  to  make  him  a  saint  after  his  death 
by  way  of  reward.  I  object  to  this  sort  of  canonisation 
of  Judith.  And  she  will  object,  too.  You  seem  to  leave 
her  out  of  account  altogether.  She  is  mistress  of  her  own 
actions.  She  has  a  will  of  her  own.  She  is  not  going  to 
give  up  her  comfortable  flat  off  the  Tottenham  Court  Road 
in  order  to  dwell  in  Hoxton.  She  won't  go  back  to  you 
under  your  conditions." 

He  smiled  indulgently  and  held  out  his  hand  to  signify 
that  the  interview  was  over. 

"  She  will,  Sir  Marcus." 

Was  there  ever  such  a  Torquemada  of  a  creature  ?  I  re- 
spect religion.  I  respect  this  man's  intense  conviction  of  the 
reality  of  his  conversion.  I  can  respect  even  the  long  frock 
coat  and  the  long  brown  whiskers,  which  in  the  case  of  so 
dashing  a  worldling  as  Rupert  Mainwaring  were  a  delib- 
erate and  daily  mortification  of  the  flesh.  But  I  hold  in 
shuddering  detestation  "the  thumb-screw  and  the  rack 
for  the  glory  of  the  Lord,"  which  he  cheerfully  contem- 
plated applying  to  Judith. 

"Why  on  earth  can't  you  let  the  poor  woman  alone?" 
I  asked,  ignoring  his  hand. 

"I  am  doing  my  duty  to  God  and  to  her,"  said  he. 

"With  the  result  that  you  have  driven  her  into  hys- 
terics." 

"  She'll  get  over  them,"  said  he. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     237 

"I  wish  you  good-day,"  said  I.  "We  might  talk  to- 
gether for  a  thousand  years  without  understanding  each 
other." 

"Pardon  me,"  he  retorted,  with  the  utmost  urbanity. 
"I  understand  you  perfectly." 

He  accompanied  me  to  the  dining-room  where  I  had 
left  my  hat  and  umbrella,  and  to  the  flat  door  which  he  po- 
litely opened.  When  it  shut  behind  me  I  felt  inclined  to 
batter  it  open  again  and  to  take  Judith  by  main  force  from 
under  his  nose.  But  I  suppose  I  am  pusillanimous.  I 
found  myself  in  the  street  brandishing  my  umbrella  like  a 
flaming  sword  and  vowing  to  perform  all  sorts  of  Paladin 
exploits,  which  I  knew  in  my  heart  were  futile. 

I  hailed  an  omnibus  in  the  Tottenham  Court  Road,  and 
clambered  to  the  top,  though  a  slight  drizzle  was  falling. 
Why  I  did  it  I  have  not  the  remotest  idea,  for  I  abhor 
those  locomotive  engines  of  exquisite  discomfort.  I  had  no 
preconceived  notion  of  destination.  It  was  a  moving  thing 
that  would  carry  me  away  from  the  Tottenham  Court 
Road,  away  from  the  Rev.  Rupert  Mainwaring,  away  from 
myself.  I  wTas  the  solitary  occupant  of  the  omnibus  roof. 
The  rain  fell,  softly,  persistently,  soakingly.  I  laughed 
aloud. 

I  recognised  the  predestined  irony  of  things  that  at  every 
corner  checks  the  course  of  the  ineffectual  man. 


CHAPTER  XX 
November  nth. 

I  wrote  Judith  a  long  letter  last  night,  urging  her  to  dis- 
regard the  forfeited  claims  of  her  husband  and  to  join  her 
life  definitely  with  mine.  I  was  cynical  enough  to  feel 
that  if  such  a  proceeding  annoyed  the  Rev.  Rupert  Main- 
waring  it  would  serve  him  right.  The  fact  of  a  man's  find- 
ing religion  and  abjuring  sack  does  not  in  itself  exculpate 
him  from  wrongs  which  he  has  inflicted  on  his  fellow- 
creatures  in  unregenerate  days.  Mainwaring  deserved 
some  punishment  of  which  he  seemed  to  have  had  remark- 
ably little;  for,  mind  you,  his  sack-cloth  and  ashes  at  Hox~ 
ton,  although  sincerely  worn,  are  not  much  of  a  punish- 
ment to  a  man  in  his  exalted  mood.  Now,  on  the  contrary, 
Judith  deserved  compensation,  such  as  I  alone  was  pre- 
pared to  offer  her  in  spite  of  conventional  morality  and  the 
feelings  of  the  Rev.  Rupert  Mainwaring.  Indeed,  it 
seemed  to  be  the  only  way  of  saving  Judith  from  being 
worried  out  of  her  life  by  frantic  appeals  to  embrace 
both  himself  and  Primitive  Christianity.  Her  position 
was  that  of  Andromeda.  Mine  that  of  an  unheroic  Per- 
seus, destined  to  deliver  her  from  the  monster — the  mon- 
ster whose  lair  is  a  little  tin  mission  church  in  Hoxton. 

I  wrote  the  letter  in  one  of  those  periods  of  semi-vitality 
when  the  pulses  of  emotion  throb  weakly,  and  sensitive- 
ness is  dulled.  To-day  I  have  felt  differently.  My  nerves 
have  been  restrung.  Something  ironically  vulgar,  sordidly 
tragic  has  seemed  to  creep  into  my  relations  with  Judith. 

To  my  great  surprise  Judith  brought  her  answer  in  per- 
son this  evening.  It  is  the  first  time  she  has  entered  my 

238 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     239 

house;  and  her  first  words,  as  she  looked  all  around  her 
with  a  wistful  smile  referred  to  the  fact. 

"It  is  almost  just  as  I  have  pictured  it — and  I  have 
pictured  it — do  you  know  how  often?" 

She  was  calmer,  if  not  happier.  The  haggard  expres- 
sion had  given  place  to  one  of  resignation.  I  wheeled  an 
arm-chair  close  to  the  fire,  for  she  was  cold,  and  she  sank 
into  it  with  a  sigh  of  weariness.  I  knelt  beside  her.  She 
drew  off  her  gloves  and  put  one  hand  on  my  head  in  the  old 
way.  The  touch  brought  me  great  comfort.  I  thought 
that  we  had  reached  the  quiet  haven  at  last. 

"  So  you  have  come  to  me,  Judith,"  I  whispered. 

"I  have  come,  dear,"  she  said,  "to  tell  you  that  I  can't 
come." 

My  heart  sank. 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

We  fenced  a  little.  She  gave  half  reasons,  womanlike, 
of  which  I  proved  the  inadequacy.  I  recapitulated  the  ar- 
guments I  had  used  in  my  letter.  She  met  them  with  hints 
and  vague  allusions.  At  last  she  cut  the  knot. 

"I  am  going  back  to  my  husband." 

I  rose  to  my  feet  and  echoed  the  words.  She  repeated 
them  in  a  tone  so  mournfully  distinct,  that  they  had  the 
finality  of  a  death-knell.  I  had  nothing  to  say. 

"  Before  we  part  I  must  make  my  peace  with  you,  Mar- 
cus," she  said.  "I  have  suddenly  developed  a  conscience. 
I  always  had  the  germs  of  it." 

"You  were  always  the  best  and  dearest  woman  in  the 
world,"  I  cried. 

"And  I  betrayed  you,  dear.  That  letter  from  Pasquale 
told  me  about  his  flight  with  Carlotta.  I  lied  to  you — but 
I  was  in  a  state  bordering  on  madness." 

I  rested  my  elbow  on  the  mantel-piece  and  looked 
down  on  her.  She  appeared  so  sweet  and  fragile,  like  a 


240     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

piece  of  Dresden  china,  incapable  of  base  actions.  As  I  did 
not  speak  she  went  on: 

"I  did  not  mean  to  play  into  Pasquale's  hands,  Mar- 
cus. Heaven  knows  I  didn't — but  I  did  play  into  them. 
Do  you  remember  that  awful  night  and  our  talk  the  next 
morning?  I  asked  you  not  to  see  her  all  day — to  mourn 
our  dead  love.  I  knew  you  would  keep  your  promise. 
You  are  a  man  of  sensitive  honour.  If  all  men  were  like 
you,  the  world  would  be  a  beautiful  place." 

"It  would  go  to  smash  in  a  few  weeks  through  univer- 
sal incompetence,"  I  murmured,  with  some  bitterness. 

"There  would  be  no  meanness  and  treachery  and  des- 
picable underhand  doings.  Marcus,  you  must  forgive  me 
— I  was  a  desperate  woman  fighting  for  my  life's  happi- 
ness. I  thought  I  would  try  one  forlorn  hope.  I  kept  you 
out  of  the  way  and  came  up  here  to  see  Carlotta.  Don't 
interrupt  me,  Marcus;  let  me  finish.  I  happened  to  meet 
her  a  hundred  yards  down  the  road,  and  we  went  into  the 
Regent's  Park.  We  sat  down  and  I  told  her  about  our- 
selves, and  my  love  for  you,  and  asked  her  to  give  you  up. 
I  don't  believe  she  understood,  Marcus.  She  laughed  and 
threw  stones  at  a  little  dog.  I  recovered  my  senses  and  left 
her  there  and  went  home  sick  with  shame  and  humiliation. 
I  knew  Pasquale  was  in  love  with  her,  for  he  had  told  me 
so  the  night  before,  and  asked  me  how  the  marriage  could 
be  stopped.  He  didn't  believe  in  your  announcement  to 
Hamdi  Effendi.  But  I  never  mentioned  Pasquale  to  Car- 
lotta, or  hinted  there  might  be  another  than  you.  I  was 
loyal  so  far,  Marcus.  And  two  or  three  days  afterwards 
came  Pasquale's  letter.  And  I  waited  for  you,  in  a  fearful 
joy.  I  knew  you  would  come  to  me — and  I  was  mad 
enough  to  think  that  time  would  heal — that  you  would  for- 
get— that  we  could  have  the  dear  past  again — and  I  would 
teach  you  to  love  me.  But  then,  suddenly,  without  a  word 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     241 

of  warning — it  has  always  been  his  way — appeared  my 
husband.  After  that,  you  came  with  your  offer  of  shelter 
and  comfort — and  you  seemed  like  the  angel  of  the  flaming 
vengeance.  For  I  had  wronged  you,  dear — robbed  you  of 
your  happiness.  If  I  hadn't  prepared  her  mind  for  leav- 
ing you,  she  would  never  have  run  away.  If  I  had  not 
done  this,  or  if  on  the  other  hand  you  loved  me,  Marcus,  I 
should  perhaps  have  looked  at  things  differently.  I  am 
beginning  to  believe  in  God  and  to  see  his  hand  in  it  all. 
I  couldn't  come  and  live  with  you  as  your  wife,  Marcus. 
Things  stronger  even  than  my  love  for  you  forbid  it.  Our 
life  together  would  not  be  the  sweet  and  gracious  thing  it 
has  always  been  to  me.  We  have  come  to  the  parting  of 
the  ways.  I  must  follow  my  husband." 

I  knew  she  spoke  rightly.  When  she  is  not  swept  away 
to  hysterical  action  by  her  temperament,  she  has  a  percep- 
tion exquisitely  keen  into  the  heart  of  truth. 

"The  parting  of  the  ways?"  said  I.  "Yes;  but  can't 
you  rest  at  the  cross-roads  ?  Can't  you  lead  your  present 
life — your  husband  and  myself,  both,  just  your  friends?" 

"Rupert  has  need  of  me,"  she  replied  very  quickly. 
"  He  is  a  man  in  torment  of  soul.  He  has  gone  to  this  ex- 
treme of  religious  fanaticism  because  he  is  still  uncertiw. 
of  himself.  We  had  another  long  talk  to-day.  I  may  help 
him." 

"  Does  he  deserve  the  sacrifice  of  your  life  ?" 

She  did  not  take  up  my  question  directly;  but  sat  for  a 
few  minutes  with  her  chin  on  her  hand  looking  into  the  fire. 

"He  is  a  man  of  evil  passions,"  she  resumed,  at  last. 
"Drink  and  women  mainly  dragged  him  down.  I  knew 
the  hell  of  it  during  the  short  time  of  our  married  life.  If 
he  falls  away  now,  he  believes  he  is  damned  to  all  eternity. 
He  believes  in  the  material  torture — flames  and  devils  and 
pitchforks — of  damned  souls.  He  says  in  me  alone  lies 
16 


242     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

his  salvation.  I  must  go.  If  the  tin  church  gets  too 
awful,  I  shall  run  over  to  Delphine  Carrere  for  a  week  to 
steady  my  nerves." 

What  could  I  say?  The  abomination  of  desolation  lay 
around  about  me.  I  might  have  prated  to  her  of  my 
needs,  wrung  her  heart  with  the  piteousness  of  my  appeal. 
Cui  bono?  I  can't  whine  to  women — or  to  men  either,  for 
the  matter  of  that.  When  I  am  by  myself  I  can  curse  and 
swear,  play  Termagant  and  rehearse  an  extravaganza 
out-Heroding  all  the  Herods  that  ever  Heroded.  But  be- 
fore others — no.  I  believe  my  great-grandfather,  before 
he  qualified  for  his  baronetcy,  was  a  gentleman. 

"But  on  these  occasions,"  said  I,  "you  will  avoid  a  se- 
questered and  meditative  self." 

Her  laugh  got  choked  by  a  sob. 

"Do  you  remember  that?  It  is  not  so  long  ago — and 
yet  it  seems  many,  many  years." 

We  moralised  generally,  after  the  way  of  humans,  who 
desire  to  postpone  a  moment  of  anguished  speech.  She 
made  the  tour  of  my  book-shelves.  Many  of  the  books 
she  had  borrowed,  and  she  recognised  them  as  old  friends. 

"Is  that  where  Benvenuto  Cellini  has  always  lived?" 

Yes,"  said  I,  running  my  hand  along  the  row.  "He  is 
in  his  century,  among  his  companions.  He  would  be  un- 
happy anywhere  else." 

"And  the  History — how  far  has  it  gone  ?  " 

I  showed  her  the  pile  of  finished  manuscript,  of  which 
she  glanced  at  a  few  pages.  She  put  it  down  hurriedly  and 
turned  away. 

"I  can't  see  to  read,  just  now,  Marcus." 

Then  she  paused  in  front  of  her  own  photograph,  the 
only  one  now  on  the  mantel-piece. 

"Will  you  give  me  that  back?" 

"Why  should  I?"  I  asked. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     243 

"I  would  rather — I  should  not  like  you  to  burn  it." 

"  Burn  it  ?    All  I  have  left  of  you  ?  " 

She  turned  swimming  eyes  on  me. 

"You  are  good,  Marcus — after  what  I  have  told  you — 
you  do  not  feel  bitterly  against  me?" 

"For  what?  For  being  quixotic?  For  going  to  mar- 
tyrdom for  an  ideal?" 

"You  did  not  listen  when  I  spoke  about  Carlotta?" 

"Oh,  my  dear!  "said  I. 

And  now  she  has  gone.  We  kissed  at  parting — a  kiss  of 
remembrance  and  renunciation.  Shall  we  ever  meet  again  ? 

Darkness  gathers  round  me,  and  I  am  tired,  tired,  and 
I  would  that  I  could  sleep  like  Rip  Van  Winkle,  and  awake 
an  old  man,  with  an  old  man's  passionless  resignation;  or 
better,  awake  not  at  all.  Such  poor  fools  as  I  are  better 
dead. 

I  look  back  and  see  all  my  philosophy  refuted,  all  my 
prim  little  opinions  lying  prone  like  dolls  with  the  saw- 
dust knocked  out  of  them.  All  these  years  I  have  been 
judging  Judith  with  an  ignorance  as  cruel  as  it  has  been 
complacent.  Verily  I  have  been  the  fag  end  of  wisdom. 
So  I  forbear  to  judge  her  now. 

If  I  had  loved  Judith  with  the  great  passion  of  a  man's 
love  for  woman,  not  all  the  converted  rascals  in  Christen- 
dom could  have  come  between  us. 

And  her  seeing  Carlotta — poor  woman — what  does  it 
matter  ?  What  did  she  say  about  Carlotta  ?  "  She  laughed 
and  threw  stones  at  a  little  dog." 

Oh,  my  God! 

November  i2th. 

This  way  madness  lies.  I  will  leave  the  house  in  charge 
of  Stenson  and  Antoinette  and  go  abroad.  Something  has 


244    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

put  Verona  into  my  head.  One  place  is  as  good  as  an- 
other, so  long  as  it  is  not  this  house — this  house  of  death 
and  madness  and  crime — and  Verona  is  in  Italy,  where  I 
have  always  found  peace. 

I  will  confess  my  madness.  This  book  is  a  record  of 
my  morals — the  finished  version  of  the  farce  the  high  gods 
have  called  on  me  to  play.  I  thought  last  night  the  cur- 
tain was  rung  down.  I  was  wrong.  Listen,  and  laugh  as  I 
do — if  you  can. 

I  fixed  myself  to  work  to-day.  After  all,  I  am  not  an 
idler.  I  earn  my  right  to  live.  When  I  publish  my  His- 
tory the  world  will  be  the  richer  by  something,  poor  though 
it  may  be.  I  vow  I  have  been  more  greatly,  more  nobly 
employed  of  late  years,  than  I  was  when  I  earned  my  liv- 
ing at  school-slavery  teaching  to  children  the  most  useless, 
the  most  disastrous,  the  most  soul-cramping  branch  of 
knowledge  wherewith  pedagogues  in  their  insensate  folly 
have  crippled  the  minds  and  blasted  the  lives  of  thousands 
of  their  fellow-creatures — elementary  mathematics.  There 
is  no  more  reason  for  any  human  being  on  God's  earth  to 
be  acquainted  with  the  Binomial  Theorem  or  the  Solu- 
tion of  Triangles — unless  he  is  a  professional  scientist, 
when  he  can  begin  to  specialise  in  mathematics  at  the  same 
age  as  the  lawyer  begins  to  specialise  in  law  or  the  surgeon 
in  anatomy — than  for  him  to  be  an  expert  in  Choctaw, 
the  Cabala  or  the  Book  of  Mormon.  I  look  back  with 
feelings  of  shame  and  degradation  to  the  days  when,  for 
the  sake  of  a  crust  of  bread,  I  prostituted  my  intelligence 
to  wasting  the  precious  hours  of  impressionable  childhood, 
which  could  have  been  filled  with  so  many  beautiful  and 
meaningful  things,  over  this  utterly  futile  and  inhuman 
subject.  It  trains  the  mind — it  teaches  boys  to  think,  they 
say.  It  doesn't.  In  reality  it  is  a  cut  and  dried  subject 
easy  to  fit  into  a  school  curriculum.  Its  sacrosanctity 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     245 

saves  educationalists  an  enormous  amount  of  trouble,  and 
its  chief  use  is  to  enable  mindless  young  men  from  the  uni- 
versities to  make  a  dishonest  living  by  teaching  it  to  others, 
who  in  their  turn  may  teach  it  to  a  future  generation. 

I  am  mad  to-night — why  have  I  indulged  in  this  dia- 
tribe against  mathematics  ?  I  must  find  some  vent,  I  sup- 
pose. I  see  now.  I  was  saying  that  I  earned  my  right  to 
live,  that  I  am  not  an  idler.  I  cling  strenuously  to  the 
claim.  A  man  cannot  command  respect,  even  his  own,  by 
the  mere  reason  of  his  vie  sentimentale.  And,  after  what  I 
have  done  to-day,  I  must  force  my  claim  to  the  respect 
which  on  other  grounds  I  have  forfeited. 

I  spent,  then,  my  day  in  unremitting  toil.  But  this  even- 
ing the  horrible  craving  for  her  came  over  me.  Such  a 
little  thing  brought  it  about.  Antoinette,  who  disap- 
proves of  the  amorphous  British  lumps  of  sugar,  has  found 
some  emporium  where  she  can  buy  the  regular  parallele- 
piped of  the  Continent,  and  these  she  provides  for  my 
after-dinner  coffee.  Absent-mindedly  I  dipped  the  edge  of 
the  piece  of  sugar  into  the  liquid,  before  dropping  it,  and 
watched  the  brown  moisture  rise  through  the  white  crystals. 
Then  I  remembered.  It  was  an  invariable  practice  of 
Carlotta's.  She  would  keep  the  lump  in  the  coffee  to  sat- 
uration-point between  her  fingers,  and  then  hastily  put  it 
into  her  mouth,  so  that  it  should  not  crumble  to  pieces  on 
the  way.  If  it  did,  there  would  be  much  laughter  and  wip- 
ing of  skirts;  and  there  would  be  a  search  through  my 
dinner-jacket  pockets  for  a  handkerchief  to  dry  the  pink 
tips  of  her  fingers.  She  called  the  dripping  lump  a  canard, 
like  the  French  children.  It  was  such  a  trivial  thing;  but 
it  brought  back  with  a  rush  all  the  thousand  dainty,  fool- 
ish, captivating  intimacies  that  made  up  the  maddening 
charm  of  Carlotta. 

Yes,  I  am  aware  that  there  is  no  language  spoken  under 


246     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

heaven  that  can  fitly  express  the  doting  folly  of  a  man  who 
can  be  driven  mad  by  a  piece  of  sugar  soaked  in  coffee. 
There  is  a  ghastly  French  phrase  not  to  be  found  in 
Lamartine,  Chateaubriand,  or  any  of  the  polite  sentiment- 
alists— avoir  les  sangs  tourn/s  de  quelqu'un.  It  is  so  with 
me.  J'ai  les  sangs  tourn^s  tfelle.  Somebody  has  said 
something  somewhere  about  the  passion  of  a  man  of  forty. 
It  must  have  to  do  with  the  French  phrase. 

I  pushed  my  coffee  aside  untasted,  and  buried  my  head 
in  my  hands,  longing,  longing;  eating  my  heart  out  for 
her.  The  hours  passed.  When  the  servants  were  abed, 
I  stole  upstairs  to  her  room,  left  as  it  was  on  the  night 
when  Antoinette,  hoping  against  hope,  had  prepared  it  for 
her  reception.  I  broke  down.  Heaven  knows  what  I  did. 

I  returned  to  the  drawing-room  filled  with  the  blind  rage 
that  makes  a  man  curse  God  and  wish  that  he  could  die. 
The  fire  was  black,  and  I  mechanically  took  up  the  poker 
to  stir  it.  A  tempest  of  impotent  anger  shook  my  soul.  I 
saw  things  red  before  my  eyes.  I  had  an  execrable  lust  to 
kill.  I  was  alone  amid  a  multitude  of  gibbering  fiends. 
As  I  stooped  before  the  grate  I  felt  something  scrabble  my 
shoulders.  I  leapt  back  with  a  shriek,  and  saw  standing 
on  the  mantel-shelf  a  black,  one-eyed  thing  regarding  me 
with  an  expression  of  infinite  malice.  Before  I  knew  what 
I  had  done,  I  had  brought  the  iron  down,  with  all  my 
force,  upon  its  skull,  and  it  had  fallen  dead  at  my  feet. 

Finis  coronat  opus. 

November  22d. 

Verona : — I  have  abandoned  the  "History  of  Renaissance 
Morals."  The  dog's-eared  MS.  and  the  dusty  pile  of  notes  I 
have  shot  into  a  lumber  heap  in  a  corner  of  this  room,  where 
I  sit  and  shiver  by  a  little  stove.  It  is  immense,  marble, 
cold,  comfortless,  suggestive  of  "the  vasty  halls  of  death." 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     247 

I  have  been  here  a  week  to-day.  I  thought  I  should  find  rest. 
I  should  breathe  the  atmosphere  of  Italy  again.  I  should 
ease  my  heart  among  the  master-works  of  Girolamo  dai 
Libri  and  Cavazzola,  and,  in  the  presence  of  the  blue  cas- 
tellated mountains  they  loved  to  paint,  my  spirit  would 
even  be  as  theirs.  In  this  old-world  city,  I  fondly  imag- 
ined, I  should  forget  the  Regent's  Park,  and  attune  my 
mind  to  the  life  that  once  filled  its  narrow  streets. 

But  nothing  have  I  found  save  solitude.  I  stood  to-day 
before  the  mutilated  fresco  of  Morone,  my  rapture  of  six 
years  ago,  and  hated  it  with  unreasoning  hatred.  The 
Madonna  belied  the  wreath-supported  inscription  above 
her  head,  " Miser atrix  virginum  Regina  nostri  miserere" 
and  greeted  me  with  a  pitiless  simper.  The  unidentified 
martyr  on  the  left  stared  straight  in  front  of  him  with  cal- 
lous indifference,  and  St.  Roch  looked  aggravatingly  plump 
for  all  his  ostentatious  plague-spot.  The  picture  was  worse 
than  meaningless.  It  was  insulting.  It  drove  me  out  of  the 
Public  Gallery.  Outside  a  grey  mist  veiled  the  hills  and  a 
fine  penetrating  rain  was  falling.  I  crept  home,  and  for 
the  fiftieth  time  since  I  have  been  here,  opened  my  "  His- 
tory of  Renaissance  Morals."  I  threw  it,  with  a  final 
curse,  into  the  corner. 

I  loathe  it.  I  care  not  a  fig  for  the  Renaissance  or  its 
morals.  I  count  its  people  but  a  pestilent  herd  of  daubers, 
rhymers,  cutthroats,  and  courtesans.  Their  y/?/o«?  has 
lost  its  glamour  of  beauty  and  has  coarsened  into  vulgar 
insolence.  They  offend  me  by  their  riotous  swagger, 
their  insistence  on  the  animal  joy  of  living;  chiefly  by 
their  perpetual  reminiscence  of  Pasquale. 

Yet  once  they  interested  me  greatly,  filling  with  music 
and  with  colour  the  grey  void  of  my  life.  Whence  has 
come  the  change? 

In  myself.    To  myself  I  have  become  a  subject  of  ex- 


248     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

cruciating  interest.  To  myself  I  am  a  vastly  more  pictur- 
esque personage  than  any  debonair  hooligan  of  quattro- 
cento Verona.  He  has  faded  into  the  dullest  (and  most 
offensive)  dog  of  a  ghost.  I  only  exist.  This  sounds  b'ke 
the  colossal  vanity  of  Bedlam.  Heaven  knows  it  is  not. 
If  you  are  racked  with  toothache  from  ear  to  ear,  from 
crown  to  chin,  and  from  eyeball  to  cerebellum,  is  not  the 
whole  universe  concentrated  in  that  head  of  yours  ?  Are 
you  not  to  yourself  in  that  hour  of  torture  the  most  vitally 
important  of  created  beings  ?  And  no  one  blames  you  for 
it.  Let  me  therefore  be  without  blame  in  my  hour  of 
moral  toothache. 

In  the  days  gone  by  I  was  the  victim  of  a  singular  hallu- 
cination. I  flattered  myself  on  being  the  one  individual  in 
the  world  not  summoned  to  plaj  his  part  in  the  comedy  of 
Life.  I  sat  alone  in  the  great  auditorium  like  the  mad 
king  of  Bavaria,  watching  with  little  zest  what  seemed  but 
a  sorry  spectacle.  I  thought  myself  secure  in  my  solitary 
stall.  But  I  had  not  counted  on  the  high  gods  who  crowd 
shadowy  into  the  silent  seats  and  are  jealous  of  a  mortal 
in  their  midst.  Without  warning  was  I  wrested  from  my 
place,  hurled  onto  the  stage,  and  before  my  dazzled  eyes 
could  accustom  themselves  to  the  footlights,  I  found  my- 
self enmeshed  in  intolerable  drama.  I  was  unprepared.  I 
knew  my  part  imperfectly.  I  missed  my  cues.  I  had  the 
blighting  self-consciousness  of  the  amateur.  And  yet  the 
idiot  mummery  was  intensely  real.  Amid  the  laughter  of 
the  silent  shadowy  gods  I  thought  to  flee  from  the  stage.  I 
came  to  Verona  and  find  I  am  still  acting  my  part.  I  have 
always  been  acting.  I  have  been  acting  since  I  was  born. 
The  reason  of  our  being  is  to  amuse  the  high  gods  with  our 
Itlstrionics.  The  earth  itself  is  the  stage,  and  the  starry 
ether  the  infinite  auditorium. 

The  high  gods  have  granted  to  their  troupe  of  mimes 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     249 

one  boon.  Each  has  it  in  his  power  to  make  the  final  exit 
at  any  moment.  For  myself  I  feel  that  moment  is  at  hand. 
One  last  soliloquy,  and  then  like  the  pagliacco  I  can  say 
with  a  sigh,  "La  commedia  £  finita — the  play  is  played 
out,"  and  the  rest  will  be  silence.  At  all  events  I  will  tell 
my  own  story.  My  "History  of  Renaissance  Morals"  can 
lie  in  its  corner  and  rot,  whilst  I  shall  concern  myself  with 
a  far  more  vital  theme — The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne. 
The  rough  entries  in  my  diary  have  been  a  habit  of  many 
futile  years;  but  they  have  never  sufficed  for  self-expres- 
sion. I  have  not  needed  it  till  now.  But  now,  with  Judith 
and  Carlotta  gone  from  me,  my  one  friend,  Pasquale,  cut 
for  ever  from  my  life,  even  the  sympathetic  Polyphemus 
driven  into  eternity  by  my  murderous  hand,  I  feel  the  irre- 
sistible craving  to  express  myself  fully  and  finally  for  the 
first  and  last  time  of  my  life.  It  will  be  my  swan  song. 
What  becomes  of  it  afterwards  I  care  not. 

And  when  the  last  word  is  written,  I  shall  go  to  the  Pina- 
coteca  and  stand  again  before  the  Morone  fresco,  and  if 
the  Miseratrix  Virginum  Regina  still  simpers  at  me,  I  shall 
take  it  as  a  sign  and  a  token.  I  shall  return  to  this  marble 
cavern  and  make  my  final  exit.  It  will  be  theatrically  ar- 
tistic— that  I  vow  and  declare — which  no  doubt  will  afford 
immense  pleasure  to  the  high  gods  in  their  gallery. 


PART  II 


PART  II 

CHAPTER  XXI 

It  is  some  two  years  since  I  stood  for  the  second  time  in 
the  Pinacoteca  of  Verona  and  sought  to  read  my  fate  in 
the  simpering  countenance  of  Morone's  Miseratrix  Vir- 
ginum  Regina.  I  met  what  might  have  been  expected  by 
a  person  of  any  sense — the  self-same  expression  on  the 
painted  face  as  I  had  angrily  found  there  two  months  be- 
fore when  I  began  to  write  the  foregoing  pages.  But  as  I 
had  no  sense  at  all  in  those  days  I  accepted  the  poor  bat- 
tered Madonna's  lack  of  sympathy  for  a  sign  and  a  token, 
went  home,  and  prepared  for  dissolution. 

Two  years  ago !  It  is  only  for  the  last  few  months  that 
I  have  been  able  to  look  back  on  that  nightmare  of  a  time 
in  Verona  with  philosophic  equanimity.  And  this  morn- 
ing is  the  first  occasion  on  which  I  have  felt  that  dispas- 
sionate attitude  towards  a  past  self  which  enables  a  man  to 
set  down  without  the  heartache  the  memories  of  days  that 
are  gone.  I  sit  upon  the  flat  roof  of  this  house  in  Mogador 
on  the  Morocco  coast,  shaded  by  an  awning  from  the 
bright  African  sun  which  glints  in  myriad  sparkles  on  the 
sea  visible  beyond  the  house-tops.  The  atmosphere  last 
night  was  somewhat  heavy  with  the  languorous,  indescrib- 
able, and  unforgettable  smell  of  the  East;  but  the  morning 
is  deliciously  wind-swept  by  the  Atlantic  breeze,  and  the 
air  tastes  sweet.  And  it  is  clear,  dazzlingly  clear.  The 
white  square  houses  and  the  cupolas  of  the  mosques  stand 
out  sharp  against  a  sky  of  intense,  ungradated  blue.  I  am 

253 


254    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

away  from  the  centre  of  the  busy  sea-port  and  the  noise  of 
its  streets  thronged  with  grain-laden  camels  and  shouting 
drivers  and  picturesque,  quarrelling,  squabbling,  hag- 
gling Moors  and  Jews  and  desert  Arabs,  and  I  am  envel- 
oped in  the  peace  of  the  infinite  azure.  Besides,  yesterday 
afternoon,  as  I  rode  back  to  Mogador,  across  the  tongue  of 
desert  which  separates  it  from  the  Palm  Tree  House,  and 
the  town  rose  on  the  horizon,  a  dream  city  of  pure  snow  set 
in  the  clear  sunset  amethyst  against  the  still,  pale  lapis 
lazuli  of  the  bay — something  happened.  And  yesterday 
evening  more  happened  stilL 

Two  years  ago,  then,  I  faced  in  Verona  the  dissolution 
of  my  ineffectual  existence.  I  could  see  no  reason  for  liv- 
ing. My  theory  of  myself  in  my  relation  to  the  cosmos  had 
been  upset  by  practical  phenomena.  No  other  theory 
based  on  surer  grounds  presented  itself.  But  what  about 
life,  said  I,  without  a  theory?  Already  it  was  life  without 
a  purpose,  without  work,  without  friends,  without  Judith 
and  without  Carlotta.  I  could  not  endure  it  without  even 
a  theory  to  console  me.  Beings  do  exist  devoid  of  loves  or 
theories.  But  of  such,  I  thought,  are  the  beasts  that  per- 
ish. I  reflected  further.  Supposing,  on  extended  investi- 
gation, I  found  a  new  theory.  How  far  would  it  profit  me  ? 
How  far  could  I  trust  it  not  to  lead  me  through  another 
series  of  fantastic  emotions  and  futile  endeavours  to  the 
sublime  climax  of  murdering  a  one-eyed  cat  ?  Self-abomi- 
nation and  contempt  smote  me  as  I  thought  of  poor  Poly- 
phemus stretched  dead  on  the  hearthrug,  and  myself  stand- 
ing over  him,  sane,  stupid,  and  remorseful,  with  the  poker 
in  my  hand. 

I  walked  up  and  down  the  vast  cold  room  of  the  marble 
palazzo,  arraying  before  me  in  overwhelming  numbers  the 
arguments£for  self-destruction.  On  a  table  in  the  middle 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     255 

of  the  room  stood  a  phial  of  prussic  acid  which  I  had  pro- 
cured long  before  in  London,  it  being  a  conviction  of  mine 
that  every  man  ought  to  have  ready  to  hand  a  sure  means 
of  exit  from  the  world.  I  paused  many  times  in  front  of 
the  little  blue  phial.  One  lift  of  the  hand,  one  toss  of  the 
head,  and  all  would  be  over.  At  last  I  extracted  the  cork, 
and  the  faint  smell  of  almonds  reached  my  nostrils.  I  re- 
corked  the  phial  and  lit  a  cigarette.  This  I  threw  away 
half  smoked  and  again  approached  the  table  of  death.  I 
began  to  feel  a  strong  natural  disinclination  to  swallow  the 
stuff.  "This,"  said  I,  "is  sheer  animal  cowardice."  I 
again  uncorked  the  phial.  A  new  phase  of  the  matter  ap- 
peared to  me.  "It  is  the  act  of  a  craven  to  shirk  the  re- 
sponsibilities of  life.  Can  you  be  such  a  mean-spirited 
creature  as  not  even  to  have  the  courage  to  live?"  "No," 
said  I,  "I  have  a  valiant  spirit,"  and  I  set  down  the  bottle. 
"  Bah,"  whispered  the  familiar  imp  of  suicide  at  my  elbow. 
"You  are  just  afraid  to  die."  I  took  up  the  bottle  again. 
But  the  other  taunter  had  an  argument  equally  strong,  and 
once  more  I  put  the  phial  uncorked  on  the  table. 

Thus  between  two  cowardices,  one  of  which  I  must 
choose,  stood  I,  like  the  ass  of  Buridan.  I  lit  another  cig- 
arette and  excogitated  the  problem.  I  smoked  two  ciga- 
rettes, walking  up  and  down  that  vast,  chill  apartment, 
while  the  air  grew  sickly  sweet  with  the  smell  of  almonds, 
which  intensified  the  physical  repugnance  the  first  faint 
odour  had  occasioned.  I  began  to  shiver  with  cold.  The 
stove  had  burned  out  before  I  entered,  and  I  had  not  con- 
sidered it  worth  while  to  have  it  rilled  for  the  few  minutes 
that  would  remain  to  me  to  live.  I  had  not  reckoned  on 
the  ass's  bundles  of  cowardice. 

"I  may  as  well  be  warm,"  thought  I,  "while  I  prove  to 
my  complete  satisfaction  that  it  is  more  cowardly  to  live 
than  to  die.  There  is  no  very  great  hurry." 


256    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

I  caught  up  a  travelling-rug  with  which  I  had  tried  to 
soften  the  asperities  of  an  imitation  Louis  XV  couch, 
and  throwing  it  over  my  shoulders,  resumed  my  pilgrim- 
age. I  soon  lost  myself  in  the  problem  and  did  not  notice 
a  corner  of  the  rug  gradually  slipping  down  towards  the 
floor. 

"  I'll  do  it ! "  I  cried  at  last,  making  a  sudden  dive  towards 
the  table.  But  the  ironical  corner  of  the  rug  had  reached 
the  ground.  I  stepped  on  it,  tripped,  and  instinctively 
caught  the  table  to  steady  myself.  The  table,  a  rickety 
gue"ridon,  overbalanced,  and  away  rolled  my  uncorked 
phial  of  prussic  acid  and  fell  into  a  hundred  pieces  on  the 
tessellated  floor. 

"Solvitur,"  said  I,  grimly,  "ambtdando" 

Looking  back  now,  I  am  inclined  to  treat  myself  ten- 
derly. Whether  I  should  have  drunk  the  poison,  if  the 
accident  had  not  occurred,  I  cannot  say.  At  the  moment 
of  my  rush  I  intended  to  do  so.  After  the  catastrophe, 
which  I  attributed  to  the  curse  of  ineffectuality  that  pur- 
sued me,  I  must  confess  that  I  was  glad.  Not  that  life 
looked  more  attractive  than  before,  but  that  the  decision 
had  been  taken  out  of  my  hands.  I  could  not  go  about  the 
shops  of  Verona  buying  prussic  acid  or  revolvers  or  me- 
tres of  stout  rope.  And  my  razors  (without  Stenson's 
care)  were  benignantly  blunt,  and  I  would  not  condescend 
to  braces.  I  groaned  and  pished  and  pshawed,  but  as  it 
was  written  that  I  was  to  live,  I  resigned  myself  to  a  bar- 
ren and  theoryless  existence. 

After  a  day  or  two  the  vital  instinct  asserted  itself  more 
strongly.  I  became  inspired  by  an  illuminating  revelation. 
I  had  a  preliminary  aim  in  life.  I  would  go  out  into  the 
world  in  search  of  a  theory.  When  found  I  would  apply  it 
to  the  regulation  of  the  score  and  a  half  years  during  which 
I  might  possibly  expect  to  remain  on  this  planet.  I  must 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     257 

take  my  chances  of  it  leading  me  to  the  corpse  of  another 
Polyphemus. 

As  it  struck  me  I  should  not  find  my  theory  in  Italy,  I 
packed  up  my  belongings  and  hastened  from  Verona.  At 
Naples  I  picked  up  a  Messageries  Maritimes  steamer  and 
began  a  circular  tour  in  the  Levant.  At  Alexandretta  I 
went  ashore,  and  inquired  my  way  to  the  dwelling  of  the 
Prefect  of  Police.  I  did  not  call  on  Hamdi  Effendi.  But 
I  wandered  round  the  walls  and  wondered  in  a  moody, 
heart-achey  way  where  it  was  that  Carlotta  sat  when  Harry 
came  along  and  whistled  her  like  a  tame  falcon  to  his  arm. 
It  was  a  white  palace  of  a  house  with  a  closed  balcony  sup- 
ported on  rude  corbels  and  tightly  shuttered.  At  the  back 
spread  a  large  garden  surrounded  by  the  famous  wall. 
There  was  no  doubt  that  Hamdi  was  a  wealthy  personage, 
and  that  Carlotta's  nurture  had  been  as  gentle  as  that  of 
any  lady  in  Syria.  But  the  place  wherein  Carlotta's  child- 
hood had  been  sheltered  had  an  air  of  impenetrable  mys- 
tery. I  stood  baffled  before  it,  as  I  had  stood  so  often  be- 
fore Carlotta's  soul.  The  result  of  this  portion  of  my 
search  was  the  discovery,  not  of  a  new  theory,  but  of  an  old 
pain.  I  went  back  to  the  ship  in  a  despondent  mood,  and 
caused  deep  distress  to  one  of  the  gentlest  creatures  I  have 
ever  met.  He  was  a  lean,  elderly  German,  who  no  matter 
what  the  occasion  or  what  the  temperature  wore  a  long, 
tight-buttoned  frock-coat,  a  narrow  black  tie,  and  a  little 
bluish-grey  felt  hat  adorned  with  a  partridge's  feather  which 
gave  him  an  air  of  forlorn  rakishness.  His  name  was  Doc- 
tor Anastasius  Dose,  and  he  spent  a  blameless  life  in  trav- 
elling up  and  down  the  world,  on  behalf  of  a  Leipsic  firm 
of  which  he  was  a  member,  in  search  of  rare  and  curious 
books.  For  there  are  copies  of  books  which  have  a  well- 
known  pedigree  like  famous  jewels,  and  whose  acquisition, 
a  matter  of  infinite  tact,  gives  ris°,  I  was  told  by  Herr  Dose, 


258     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

to  the  most  exquisite  thrill  known  to  man.  He  brought 
me  on  that  morose  afternoon  a  copy  of  the  "  Synonima,"  in 
Italian  and  French,  of  St.  Fliscus,  printed  by  Simon  Mag- 
magus  of  Milan  in  1480,  and  opened  the  vellum  covers 
with  careful  fingers. 

"  In  all  the  assemblage  of  human  atoms  that  inhabit  this 
vessel,"  said  he,  "there  is  but  one  who  is  imbued  with  rev- 
erence for  the  past  and  a  sense  of  the  preciousness  of  the 
unique.  I  need  not  tell  you,  Herr  Baronet,  who  are  a 
scholar,  that  of  this  book  only  two  copies  exist  in  this  ink- 
sodden  universe.  One  is  in  the  University  Library  of  Bo- 
logna ;  the  other  is  before  your  eyes.  It  is  also  the  only  book 
known  to  have  been  printed  by  Magniagus.  See  the 
beautiful,  small  Roman  type — a  masterpiece.  Ach,  Herr 
Baronet!  to  have  accomplished  one  such  work  in  a  life- 
time, and  then  to  sit  among  the  blessed  saints  and  look 
down  on  earth  and  know  that  the  two  sole  copies  in  exist- 
ence are  cherished  by  the  elect,  what  a  reward,  what  eternal 
happiness!" 

I  turned  over  the  pages.  The  faint  perfume  of  mouldy 
lore  ascended  and  I  remembered  the  smell  of  the  "  Histoire 
des  Uscoques"  in  the  Embankment  Gardens. 

"The  odor  di  jemina  in  the  nostrils  of  the  scholar," 
said  I. 
• "  Femina  ?   Woman  ?"  he  cried,  scandalised. 

"Yes,  my  friend,"  said  I.  "All  things  sublunar  can  be 
translated  into  terms  of  woman.  St.  Fliscus  wrote  because 
he  hadn't  a  wife;  Simon  Magniagus  stopped  printing  be- 
cause he  got  married  and  devoted  his  existence  to  repro- 
ducing himself  instead  of  St.  Fliscus." 

"  Ach,  that  is  very  interesting,"  said  he.  "  Could  you  tell 
me  the  date  of  Magniagus's  marriage?" 

"  I  never  heard  of  him  till  this  moment,  my  dear  Herr 
Doctor.  But  depend  upon  it,  he  was  either  married  or 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     259 

was  going  to  be  married,  and  she  ran  away  from  him  and 
left  him  without  the  heart  to  print  for  posterity,  and  when 
he  took  his  seat  among  the  saints  she  said  she  was  so  glad; 
he  was  a  stupid  old  ink-sodden  fellow!" 

He  departed  sorrowingly  from  the  deck,  clasping  the 
precious  volume  to  his  heart.  Allusive  or  discursive  speech 
scared  him  like  indecency;  and  I  had  used  his  gem  but  as 
a  peg  whereon  flauntingly  to  hang  it.  It  took  me  three 
days  to  tame  him  and  to  induce  him  to  show  me  another  of 
his  treasures,  recently  acquired  in  Athens.  loannes  Geor- 
gius  Godelmann's  Tractate  de  Lamiis,  printed  by  Nicho- 
las Bassaeus  of  Frankfurt.  I  read  him  Keats's  poem  about 
the  young  lady  of  Corinth,  of  which  he  had  never  heard. 
His  mental  attitude  towards  it  was  the  indulgent  one  of  an 
old  diplomatist  towards  a  child's  woolly  lamb.  For  him 
literature  had  never  existed  and  printing  ended  in  the  year 
1600.  But  I  was  sorry  when  he  left  me  at  Constantinople, 
where  he  counted  on  striking  the  track  of  a  Bohemian 
herbal,  printed  at  Prague,  and  never  more  to  be  read  by 
any  of  the  sons  of  man.  In  the  summer  he  was  going 
book-hunting  in  Iceland.  By  chance  I  have  learned 
since  that  he  died  there.  Peace  to  his  ashes!  For  aught 
I  could  see  he  dwelt  in  a  mild  stupor  of  happiness, 
absorbed  in  the  intoxication  of  a  tremulous  pursuit.  I 
wondered  whether  his  soul  contained  that  antidote — the 
odor  di  jemina.  Perhaps  he  met  it  at  Reykjavic  and  he 
died  of  dismay. 

I  thought  that  my  landing  at  Alexandretta  was  alone 
responsible  for  the  continuance  of  my  dotage,  and  hoped 
that  fresh  scenes  would  banish  Carlotta's  distracting 
image.  But  no,  it  was  one  of  the  many  vain  reflections  on 
which  I  based  a  false  philosophy.  Whether  in  Beyrout, 
or  the  land  of  the  "sweet  singer  of  Persephone,"  or  Alex- 
andria, or  on  the  Cannebiere  of  Marseilles,  or  in  the  queer 


half- Orient  of  Algiers  whither  a  restless  pursuit  of  the 
Identical  led  me,  or  in  Lisbon,  or  in  the  mountainous  re- 
public of  Andorre,  where  I  hoped  to  find  primitive  wisdom 
and  to  shape  a  theory  from  first  principles,  and  whence  I 
was  ironically  driven  by  fleas — whether  on  land  or  sea,  in 
cities  or  in  solitudes,  the  vanished  hand  harped  on  my 
heartstrings  and  the  voice  that  was  still  (as  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned) cooed  its  dove-notes  into  my  ears. 

I  remember  overhearing  myself  described  on  a  steam- 
boat by  a  pretty  American  girl  of  sixteen,  as  "a  quaint 
gentle  old  guy  who  talks  awful  rot  which  no  one  can  under- 
stand, and  is  all  the  time  thinking  about  something  else." 
My  sudden  emergence  from  the  companion-way,  where  I 
was  lighting  a  cigarette,  brought  red  confusion  into  the 
young  person's  cheeks. 

"How  old  do  you  think  I  am?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  about  sixty,"  quoth  the  damsel. 

"I'm  glad  I'm  quaint  and  gentle,  even  though  I  do  talk 
rot,"  said  I. 

With  the  resourcefulness  of  her  nation  she  linked  her 
arm  in  mine  and  started  a  confidential  walk  up  and  down 
the  deck. 

"You  are  just  a  dear,"  she  remarked. 

She  could  not  have  said  more  to  Anastasius  Dose  had 
he  been  there;  as  far  as  I  can  recollect  he  must  just  then 
have  been  dying  of  the  Inevitable  in  Iceland.  Perhaps  the 
few  months  had  brought  me  to  resemble  him.  Instinctively 
I  put  my  hand  to  my  head  to  reassure  myself  that  I  was 
not  wearing  a  rakish  little  soft  felt  hat  with  a  partridge- 
feather,  and  I  reflected  with  some  complacency  that  my 
rimless  pince-nez  did  not  give  me  the  owlish  appearance 
produced  by  Anastasius  Dose's  great  round,  iron-rimmed 
goggles.  From  such  crumbs  of  vanity  are  we  sometimes 
reduced  to  take  comfort. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     261 

"I  just  want  to  know  what  you  are,"  said  my  young 
American  friend. 

Shall  I  confess  my  attraction  ?  She  brought  a  dim  sug- 
gestion of  Carlotta.  She  had  Carlotta's  colouring  and 
Carlotta's  candour.  But  there  the  resemblance  stopped. 
The  grey  matter  of  her  brain  had  been  distilled  from  the 
air  of  Wall  Street,  and  there  were  precious  few  things  be- 
tween earth  and  sky  of  which  she  hadn't  prescience. 

"I'm  a  broken-down  philosopher,"  said  I. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing.  So  is  everybody  as  soon  as  they 
get  sense.  What  did  you  make  your  money  in?" 

"I've  not  made  any  money,"  I  answered,  meekly. 

"  I  thought  all  people  who  were  knighted  in  your  coun- 
try had  made  piles  of  money." 

"Knighted!"  I  exclaimed.  "What  on  earth  do  you 
think  a  quaint  old  guy  like  myself  could  possibly  have 
done  to  get  knighted?" 

"Then  you're  a  baronet,"  she  said,  severely. 

"  I  assure  you  it  is  not  my  fault." 

"  I  thought  all  baronets  were  wicked.  They  are  in  the 
novels.  Somehow  you  don't  look  like  a  baronet.  You 
ought  to  have  a  black  moustache  and  an  eyeglass  and 
smoke  a  cigar  and  sneer.  But,  say,  how  do  you  fill  up  the 
time  if  you  do  nothing  to  make  money?" 

"I  am  going  through  the  world,"  said  I,  "on  an  adven- 
turous quest,  like  a  knight — or  a  baronet,  if  you  will — of 
the  Round  Table.  I  am  in  quest  of  a  Theory  of  Life." 

"I  guess  I  was  born  with  it,"  cried  young  New  York. 

"I  guess  I'll  die  without  finding  it,"  said  I. 

London  again.  My  quiet  house.  Antoinette  and  Sten- 
son.  The  well-ordered  routine  of  comfort.  My  books. 
The  dog's-eared  manuscript  of  the  "History  of  Renaissance 
Morals,"  unpacked  by  Stenson  and  kid  in  ;cs  usual  place 


262    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

on  the  writing-table.  Nothing  changed,  yet  everything 
utterly  different. 

A  growing  distaste  for  the  forced  acquaintanceships  of 
travel  and  a  craving  for  home  brought  me  back.  Save 
perhaps  in  health  I  had  profited  little  by  my  journeyings. 
My  bodily  shell  formed  part  of  strange  landscapes  and 
occurred  in  fortuitous  gatherings  of  men,  but  my  heart 
was  all  the  time  in  my  Mausoleum  by  the  Regent's  Park. 
I  was  drawn  thither  by  a  force  almost  magnetic,  irresistible. 
My  two  domestics  welcomed  me  home,  but  no  one  else. 
Only  my  lawyers  knew  of  my  arrival.  With  them  alone 
had  I  corresponded  during  the  many  months  of  my  ab- 
sence. Stay;  I  did  write  one  letter  to  Mrs.  McMurray 
while  I  was  at  Verona,  in  reply  to  an  enquiry  as  to  what  had 
become  of  Carlotta  and  myself.  I  answered  courteously 
but  briefly  that  Carlotta  had  run  away  with  Pasquale  and 
that  I  should  be  abroad  for  an  indefinite  period.  But  not 
even  a  letter  from  my  lawyers  awaited  me.  I  thought 
somewhat  wistfully  that  I  would  willingly  have  paid  six 
and  eight  pence  for  it.  But  the  feeling  was  momentary. 

Then  began  a  queer,  untroubled  life.  Without  definite 
resolve  I  became  a  recluse,  living  forlornly  from  day  to 
day.  Like  a  bat  I  avoided  the  outer  sunshine  and  took 
my  melancholy  walks  at  night.  I  had  a  pride  in  cherish- 
ing the  habit  of  solitude.  Were  it  not  that  I  entertained  a 
real  dislike  of  roots  and  water  and  the  damp  and  manifold 
discomforts  of  a  cave,  with  which  form  of  habitat  the  min- 
istrations of  Stenson  and  Antoinette  would  have  been  in- 
consistent, I  should  have  gone  forth  into  the  nearest  ap- 
proach to  a  Thebaid  I  could  discover.  I  was,  in  fact, 
touched  by  the  mild  mania  of  the  hermit.  My  club  I  never 
entered.  A  line  drawn  from  east  to  west,  a  tangent  at  the 
lowest  point  *>{  the  Zoological  Gardens  formed  the  south- 
ern boundary  of  my  wanderings.  Once  I  spied  in  the  dis- 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     263 

tance  that  very  kind  soul,  Mrs.  McMurray,  and  rushed 
into  a  providential  omnibus,  so  as  to  avoid  recognition. 
My  History  remained  untouched.  The  glamour  of  the 
Renaissance  had  vanished.  For  occupation  I  read  the  Neo- 
Platonists,  Thaumaturgy,  Demonology  and  the  like,  which 
I  had  always  found  a  fascinating  although  futile  study.  I 
regretted  my  bowing  acquaintance  with  modern  science, 
which  forbade  my  setting  up  a  laboratory  with  alembics 
and  magic  crystals  wherewith  to  conduct  experiments  for 
the  finding  of  the  Elixir  Vitas  and  the  Philosopher's  Stone. 

I  seldom  read  the  newspapers.  I  had  an  idea,  like  an 
eminent  personage  of  the  period,  that  a  sort  of  war  was 
going  on,  but  it  failed  to  interest  me  greatly.  I  shrank  from 
the  noise  of  it. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Antoinette,  "will  get  ill  if  he  does  not 
go  out  into  the  sunshine." 

"Monsieur,"  said  I,  "regards  the  sunshine  as  an  im- 
pertinent intrusion  into  a  soul  that  loves  the  twilight." 

If  I  had  made  the  same  remark  to  an  Englishwoman, 
she  would  have  pitied  me  for  a  poor,  half-witted  gentle- 
man. But  Antoinette  has  her  nation's  instinctive  appre- 
ciation of  soul-states,  and  her  sympathy  was  none  the  less 
comprehending  when  she  shook  her  head  mournfully  and 
said  that  it  was  bad  for  the  stomach. 

"My  good  Antoinette,"  I  remarked,  harking  back  in  my 
mind  to  a  speculation  of  other  days,  "  if  you  go  on  worry- 
ing me  in  this  manner  about  my  stomach,  I  will  build  a 
tower  forty  feet  high  in  the  back  garden,  and  live  on  top, 
and  have  my  meals  sent  up  by  a  lift,  and  never  come  down 
again." 

"Monsieur  might  as  well  be  in  Paradise,"  said  Antoi- 
nette. 

"Ah,"  said  I.  And  I  thought  of  the  bottle  of  prussic 
acid  with  mingled  sentiments. 


264    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

All  through  these  many  months  I  had  Judith  dwelling, 
a  pale  ghost,  in  the  back  of  my  mind.  We  had  parted  so 
finally  that  correspondence  between  us  had  seemed  im- 
pertinent. But  although  I  had  not  written  to  her,  no  small 
part  of  the  infinite  sadness  that  had  fallen  upon  my  life  was 
the  shadow  of  her  destiny.  Sweet,  wine-loving  Judith! 
How  many  times  did  I  picture  her  sitting  pinched  and  wist- 
ful in  the  little  tin  mission  church  at  Hoxton!  Had  I, 
Marcus  Ordeyne,  condemned  her  to  that  penitentiary? 
Who  can  hold  the  balance  of  morals  so  truly  as  to  decide  ? 

At  last  I  received  a  letter  from  her  on  the  anniversary  of 
our  parting.  She  had  found  salvation  in  a  strange  thing 
which  she  called  duty.  "I  am  fulfilling  an  appointed 
task,"  she  wrote,  "and  the  measure  of  my  success  is  the 
measure  of  my  happiness.  I  am  bringing  consolation  to  a 
wayward  and  tormented  spirit.  A  year  has  swept  aside 
the  petty  feminine  vanities,  the  opera-glasses,  so  to  speak, 
through  which  a  woman  complacently  views  her  influence 
over  a  man,  and  it  has  cleared  my  vision.  A  year  has  proved 
beyond  mortal  question  that  without  me  this  wayward 
and  tormented  spirit  would  fail.  I  hold  in  my  hands  the 
very  soul  of  a  man.  What  more  dare  a  woman  ask  of  the 
high  gods  ?  You  see  I  use  your  metaphors  stiU.  Dear- 
est of  all  dear  friends,  do  not  pity  me.  Beyond  all  tne  fires 
of  love  through  which  one  passes  there  is  the  star  of  Duty, 
and  happy  the  individual  who  can  live  in  its  serenity." 

This  was  astonishingly  like  the  Theory  of  Life  which  I 
set  out  from  Verona  to  seek,  and  which  had  hitherto 
eluded  me.  It  was  not  very  new,  or  subtle,  or  inspiring. 
But  that  is  the  way  of  things.  No  matter  through  what 
realms  of  the  fantastic  you  may  travel,  you  arrive  inevi- 
tably at  the  commonplace. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

I  answered  Judith's  letter.  After  the  long  silence  it 
seemed,  at  first,  strange  to  write  to  her;  but  soon  I  found 
myself  opening  my  heart  as  I  had  never  done  before  to 
man  or  woman.  The  fact  that,  accident  aside,  we  were 
never  to  meet  again,  drew  the  spiritual  elements  in  us 
nearer  together,  and  the  tone  of  her  letter  loosened  tb? 
bonds  of  my  natural  reserve.  I  told  her  of  my  past  year  of 
life,  of  the  locked  memorial  chamber  upstairs,  of  the  mad- 
ness through  which  I  had  passed,  of  my  weary  pursuit  of 
the  Theory,  and  of  my  attitude  towards  her  solution  of  the 
problem.  Having  written  the  letter  I  felt  comforted,  know- 
ing that  Judith  would  understand. 

I  finished  it  about  six  o'clock  one  afternoon,  and  shrink- 
ing from  giving  it  to  Stenson  to  post,  as  it  was  the  first  pri> 
vate  letter  I  had  written  since  my  arrival  in  London,  1 
took  it  myself  to  the  pillar-box.  The  fresh  air  reproached 
me  for  the  unreasonable  indoor  life  I  had  been  leading, 
and  invited  me  to  remain  outside.  It  was  already  dark. 
An  early  touch  of  frost  in  the  November  air  rendered  it 
exhilarating.  I  walked  along  the  decorous,  residential 
roads  of  St.  John's  Wood  feeling  less  remote  from  my 
kind,  more  in  sympathy  with  the  humdrum  dramas  in 
progress  behind  the  rows  of  lighted  windows.  Now  and 
then  a  garden  gate  opened  and  a  man  in  evening  dress,  and 
a  woman,  a  vague,  dainty  mass  of  satin  and  frills  and  fur, 
emerged,  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  shaft  of  light  cast  by 
the  open  hall-door  beyond,  which  framed  the  white-capped 
and  aproned  parlour-maid,  and  entering  a  waiting  han- 

265 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

som,  drove  off  into  the  darkness  whither  my  speculative; 
fancy  followed  them.  Now  and  then  silhouettes  appeared 
upon  the  window-blinds,  especially  on  the  upper  floors, 
for  it  was  the  dressing  hour  and  the  cares  of  the  day  weru 
being  thrown  aside  with  the  workaday  garments.  In  oru: 
house,  standing  far  back  from  the  road,  the  drawing-roon\i 
curtains  had  not  been  drawn.  As  I  passed,  I  saw  a  mar;t 
tossing  up  a  delighted  child  in  his  arms,  and  the  mother 
standing  by.  Ay  de  mi!  A  commonplace  of  ten  thou- 
sand homes,  when  the  man  returns  from  his  toil.  Yet  it 
moved  me.  To  earn  one's  bread;  to  perpetuate  one's 
species;  to  create  duties  and  responsibilities;  to  meet1 
them  like  a  brave  man;  to  put  the  new  generation  upon 
the  right  path;  to  look  back  upon  it  all  and  say,  "I  have 
fulfilled  my  functions,"  and  pass  forth  quietly  into  the 
eternal  laboratory — is  not  that  Life  in  its  truth  and  iia 
essence?  And  the  reward?  The  commonplace.  The 
welcome  of  wife  and  children — and  the  tossing  of  a  crow- 
ing babe  in  one's  arms.  And  I  had  missed  it  all,  lived  out- 
side it  all.  I  had  spoken  blasphemously  in  my  besotted 
ignorance  of  these  sacred  common  things,  and  verily  I  had 
my  recompense  in  a  desolate  home  and  a  life  of  about  as 
much  use  to  humanity  as  that  of  St.  Simeon  Stylites  on  top 
of  his  pillar. 

So  I  walked  along  the  streets  on  the  track  of  the  wisdom 
which  Judith  had  revealed  to  me,  and  I  seemed  to  be  on 
the  point  of  reaching  it  when  I  arrived  at  my  own  door. 

"But  what  the  deuce  shall  I  do  with  it  when  I  get  it?'1 
I  said,  as  I  let  myself  in  with  my  latch-key. 

I  had  just  put  my  stick  in  the  stand  and  was  taking  off 
my  overcoat,  when  the  door  of  the  room  next  the  dining- 
room  opened,  and  Antoinette  rushed  out  upon  me. 

"Oh,  Monsieur,  Monsieur!"  she  cried,  wringing  her 
hands.  " Oh,  Monsieur!  How  shall  I  tell  you?" 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     267 

The  good  soul  broke  into  sobbing  and  weeping. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Antoinette?"  I  asked. 

"Monsieur  must  not  be  angry.  Monsieur  is  good  like 
the  Bon  Dieu.  But  it  will  give  pain  to  Monsieur." 

"  But  what  is  it  ?  "  I  cried,  mystified.  "  Have  you  spoiled 
the  dinner?" 

I  was  a  million  miles  from  any  anticipation  of  her  answer. 

"  Monsieur — she  has  come  back  I" 

I  grew  faint  for  a  moment  as  from  a  blow  over  the  heart. 
Antoinette  raised  her  great  tear-stained  face. 

"Monsieur  must  not  drive  her  away." 

I  pushed  her  gently  aside  and  entered  the  little  room 
which  I  had  furnished  once  as  her  boudoir. 

On  the  couch  sat  Carlotta,  white  and  pinched  and  poorly 
clad.  At  first  I  was  only  conscious  of  her  great  brown  eyes 
fixed  upon  me,  the  dog-like  appeal  of  our  first  meeting  in- 
tensified to  heart-breaking  piteousness.  On  seeing  me 
she  did  not  rise,  but  cowered  as  if  I  would  strike  her.  I 
looked  at  her,  unable  to  speak.  Antoinette  stood  sob- 
bing in  the  doorway. 

"Well?"  said  I,  at  last. 

"  I  have  come  home,"  said  Carlotta. 

"You  have  been  away  a  long  time,"  said  I. 

"Ye-es,"  said  Carlotta. 

"Why  have  you  come?"  I  asked. 

"I  had  no  money,"  said  Carlotta,  with  her  expressive 
gesture  of  upturned  palms.  "I  had  nothing  but  that." 
She  pointed  to  a  tiny  travelling  bag.  "Everything  else 
was  at  the  Mont  de  Pi6te — the  pawn-shop — and  they  would 
not  keep  me  any  longer  at  the  pension.  I  owed  them  for 
three  weeks,  and  then  they  lent  me  money  to  buy  my 
ticket  to  London.  I  said  Seer  Marcous  would  pay  them 
back.  So  I  came  home." 

"But  where — where  is  Pasquale?"  I  asked. 


268     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"He  went  five,  six  months  ago.  He  gave  me  some 
money  and  said  he  would  send  some  more.  But  he  did 
not  send  any.  He  went  to  South  Africa.  He  said  there 
was  a  war  and  he  wanted  to  fight,  and  he  said  he  was  sick 
of  me.  Oh,  he  was  very  unkind,"  she  cried  with  the 
quiver  of  her  baby  lips.  "  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  him." 

"Are  you  married?" 

"No,"saidCarlotta. 

"Damn  him!"  said  I,  between  my  teeth. 

"  He  was  going  to  marry  me,  but  then  he  said  it  did  not 
matter  in  Paris.  At  first  he  was  so  nice,  but  after  a  little — 
oh,  Seer  Marcous  dear,  he  was  so  cruel." 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Antoinette  wept  by  the  door, 
uttering  little  half-audible  exclamations — "la  pauvre  pe- 
tite, le  cher  ange!" 

Carlotta  regarded  me  wistfully.  I  saw  a  new  look  of 
suffering  in  her  eyes.  For  myself  I  felt  numb  with  pain. 

"What  kind  of  a  pension  were  you  living  in?"  I  asked, 
unutterable  horrors  coming  into  my  head. 

"It  was  a  French  family,  an  old  lady  and  two  old  daugh- 
ters, and  one  fat  German  professor.  Pasquale  put  me 
there.  It  was  very  respectable,"  she  added,  with  a  wan 
smile,  "and  so  dull.  Madame  Champet  would  scarcely 
let  me  go  into  the  street  by  myself." 

"Thank  heaven  you  did  not  fall  into  worse  hands," 
said  I. 

Carlotta  unpinned  her  old  straw  h"t,  quite  a  different 
garment  from  the  dainty  head- wear  she  delighted  in  a  year 
before,  and  threw  it  on  the  couch  beside  her.  A  tress  of 
her  glorious  bronze  hair  fe'1  loose  across  her  forehead, 
adding  to  the  woebegone  expression  of  her  face.  She 
rose,  and  as  she  did  so  I  seemed  to  notice  a  curious  change 
in  her.  She  came  to  me  with  extended  hands. 

"Seer  Marcous — "  she  whispered. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne    269 

I  took  her  hands  in  mine. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  said  I,  "why  did  you  leave  me?" 

"I  was  wicked.    And  I  was  a  little  fool,"  said  Carlotta. 

I  sighed,  released  her,  walked  a  bit  apart.  There  was  a 
blubber  from  the  egregious  old  woman  in  the  threshold. 

"  Oh,  Monsieur  is  not  going  to  drive  her  away." 

I  turned  upon  her. 

"  Instead  of  standing  there  weeping  like  a  fountain  and 
doing  nothing,  why  aren't  you  getting  Mademoiselle's 
room  ready  for  her?" 

"  Because  Monsieur  has  the  key,"  wailed  Antoinette. 

"That's  true,"  said  I. 

Then  I  reflected  on  the  futility  of  converting  bed-cham- 
bers into  mausoleums  for  the  living.  The  room  shut  up 
for  a  year  would  not  be  habitable.  It  would  be  damp  and 
inch-deep  in  dust. 

"Mademoiselle  shall  sleep  in  my  room  to-night,"  I  said, 
"  and  Stenson  can  make  me  up  a  bed  and  put  what  I  want 
here.  Go  and  arrange  it  with  him." 

Antoinette  departed.    I  turned  to  Carlotta. 

"Are  you  very  tired,  my  child?" 

"Oh,  yes— so  tired." 

"Why  didn't  you  write,  so  that  things  could  have  been 
got  ready  for  you  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.  I  was  too  unhappy.  Seer  Marcous — " 
she  said  after  a  little  pause  and  then  stopped. 

"Yes?" 

"  I  am  going  to  have  a  baby." 

She  said  it  in  the  old,  childlike  way,  oblivious  of  differ- 
ence of  sex;  with  her  little  foreign  insistence  on  the  final 
consonants.  I  glanced  hurriedly  at  her.  The  fact  was 
obvious.  She  stood  with  her  hands  helplessly  outspread. 
The  pathos  of  her  would  have  wrung  the  heart  of  a  devil. 

"Thank  God,  you've  come  home,"  said  I,  huskily. 


270    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

She  began  to  cry  softly.  I  put  my  arm  round  her  shoul- 
ders, and  comforted  her.  She  sobbed  out  incoherent  things. 
She  wished  she  had  never  seen  Pasquale.  I  was  good. 
She  would  stay  with  me  always.  She  would  never  run 
away  again. 

I  took  her  upstairs,  and  opened  the  door  of  her  room 
with  the  key  that  I  had  carried  for  a  year  on  my  bunch, 
and  turned  on  the  electric  light. 

"See  what  are  still  usable  of  your  old  things,"  said  I, 
"  and  I  will  send  Antoinette  up  to  you." 

She  looked  around  her,  somewhat  puzzled. 

"Why  should  I  sleep  in  your  room  when  this  one  is 
ready  for  me — my  night  dress — even  the  hot  water?" 

"My  dear,"  said  I,  "that  hot  water  was  put  for  you  a 
year  ago.  It  must  be  cold  now." 

"And  my  red  slippers — and  my  dressing-gown!"  she 
cried,  quaveringly. 

Then  sinking  in  a  heap  on  the  floor  beside  the  dusty  bed, 
she  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

I  stole  away  and  sent  Antoinette  to  minister  to  her. 

A  year  before  I  had  raved  and  ranted,  deeming  life  in- 
tolerable and  cursing  the  high  gods;  I  suffered  then,  it  is 
true;  but  I  hope  I  may  never  again  go  through  the  suffer- 
ing of  that  first  night  of  Carlotta's  return.  Even  now  I 
can  close  my  eyes  and  feel  the  icy  grip  on  my  heart. 

She  came  down  to  dinner  about  an  hour  later,  dressed 
in  a  pink  wrapper,  one  of  the  last  things  she  had  bought, 
which  Antoinette  (as  she  explained  to  excuse  her  delay) 
had  been  airing  before  the  fire.  She  sat  opposite  me,  in 
her  old  place,  penitent,  subdued,  yet  not  shy  or  ill  at  ease, 
Stenson  waited  on  us,  grave  and  imperturbable  as  if  we 
had  put  back  the  clock  of  time  a  twelvemonth.  The  only 
covert  reference  he  made  to  the  event  was  to  murmur  dis- 
creetly in  my  ear: 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne    271 

"  I  have  brought  up  a  bottle  of  the  Pommery,  Sir  Mar- 
cus, in  the  hope  you  would  drink  some." 

I  was  touched,  for  the  good  fellow  had  no  other  way  of 
showing  his  solicitude. 

Carlotta  allowed  him  to  fill  her  glass.  She  sipped  the 
wine,  and  declared  that  it  did  her  good.  She  was  110 
longer  a  teetotaller,  she  explained.  Once  she  drank  too 
much,  and  the  next  day  had  a  headache. 

"Why  should  one  have  a  headache?" 

"Nemesis,"  said  I. 

"What  is  Nemesis?" 

I  found  myself  answering  her  question  in  the  old  half- 
jesting  way.  And  in  her  old  way  she  replied : 

"I  do  not  understand." 

How  vividly  familiar  it  was,  and  yet  how  agonisingly 
strange! 

"Where  is  Polyphemus?"  she  asked. 

"Dead,"  said  I. 

"  Oh-h !    How  did  poor  Polyphemus  die  ?  " 

"He  was  smitten  by  Destiny  at  the  end  of  the  last  act  of 
i  farcical  tragedy." 

The  ghost  of  a  "hou!"  came  from  Carlotta.  She  com- 
posed herself  immediately. 

"  I  often  used  to  think  of  Polyphemus  and  Seer  Marcous 
and  Antoinette,"  she  said,  musingly.  "And  then  I  wished 
I  was  back.  I  have  been  very  wicked." 

She  put  her  elbows  on  the  table,  and  framing  her 
face  with  her  hands  looked  at  me,  and  shook  her 
head. 

"  Oh,  you  are  good!    Oh,  you  are  good!" 

" Go  on  with  your  dinner,  my  child,"  said  I,  "and  won- 
der at  the  genius  of  Antoinette  who  has  managed  to  cook 
it  and  look  after  you  at  the  same  time." 

She  obeyed  meekly.    I  watched  her  eat.    She  was  fam- 


ished.  I  learned  that  she  had  had  nothing  since  the  early 
morning  coffee  and  roll.  In  spite  of  pain,  I  was  curiously 
flattered  by  her  return.  I  represented  something  to  her, 
after  all — even  though  the  instinct  of  the  prodigal  cat  had 
driven  her  hither.  I  am  sure  it  had  never  crossed  her  mind 
that  my  doors  might  be  shut  against  her.  Her  first  words 
were,  "I  have  come  home."  The  first  thing  she  did  when 
we  went  into  the  drawing-room  after  dinner  was  to  fondle 
my  hand  and  lay  it  against  her  cheek  and  say,  with  a  deep 
sigh: 

"I  am  so  happy." 

However  shallow  her  butterfly  nature  was,  these  tilings 
came  from  its  depths.  No  man  can  help  feeling  pleased  at 
a  child's  or  an  animal's  implicit  trust  in  him.  And  the 
pleasure  is  of  the  purest.  He  feels  that  unreasoning  intui- 
tion has  penetrated  to  some  latent  germ  of  good  in  his  na- 
ture, and  for  the  moment  he  is  disarmed  of  evil.  Car- 
lotta,  then,  came  blindly  to  what  was  best  in  me.  In  her 
thoughts  she  sandwiched  me  between  the  cat  and  the  cook: 
well,  in  most  sandwiches  the  mid-ingredient  is  the  most 
essential. 

She  curled  herself  up  in  the  familiar  sofa-corner,  and  as 
it  was  a  chilly  night  I  sent  for  a  wrap  which  I  threw  over  her 
limbs. 

"  See,  I  have  the  dear  red  slippers,"  she  remarked,  arch- 
ing her  instep. 

"And  I  have  my  dear  Carlotta,"  said  I. 

I  drew  my  chair  near  her,  and  gradually  I  learned  all 
the  unhappy  story. 

Pasquale  had  made  love  to  her  from  the  very  first  minute 
of  their  acquaintance — even  while  I  was  hunting  for 
the  UHistoire  Comique  de  Francion.  He  had  met  her 
many  times  unknown  to  me.  They  had  corresponded, 
her  letters  being  addressed  to  a  little  stationer's  shop 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     273 

close  by.  She  did  not  love  him.  Of  that  I  have  an  abso- 
lute conviction.  But  he  was  young,  he  was  handsome,  he 
had  the  libertine's  air  and  manner.  She  was  docile. 
And  she  was  ever  positively  truthful.  If  I  had  ques- 
tioned her  she  would  have  confessed  frankly.  But  I 
never  questioned,  as  I  never  suspected.  I  wondered  some- 
times at  her  readiness  in  quoting  him.  I  noticed  odd 
coincidences;  but  I. was  too  ineffectual  to  draw  inferences 
from  phenomena.  His  appearance  on  the  Paddington 
platform  was  prearranged;  his  duchessa  at  Ealing  a 
myth. 

Apparently  he  had  dallied  with  his  fancy.  The  fruit 
was  his  any  day  for  the  plucking.  Perhaps  a  rudimentary 
sentiment  of  loyalty  towards  me  restrained  him.  Who  can 
tell?  The  night  of  our  meeting  with  Hamdi  brought  the 
crisis.  The  Turk's  threats  had  alarmed  both  Carlotta  and 
myself.  It  was  necessary  for  him  to  strike  at  once.  He 
saw  her  the  next  day — would  to  heaven  I  had  remained  at 
home! — told  her  I  was  marrying  her  to  save  her  from 
Hamdi.  I  loved  the  other  woman.  He  would  save  her 
equally  well  from  Hamdi.  The  other  woman  met  her  soon 
after  parting  from  Pasquale  and  besought  her  to  give  me 
up.  She  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Poor  child,  how 
should  she  have  known  ?  On  the  previous  evening  I  had 
told  her  she  was  to  marry  me.  She  was  ready  to  obey.  She 
went  to  bed  thinking  that  she  was  to  marry  me.  In  the 
morning  she  went  for  her  music  lesson.  Pasquale  was 
waiting  for  her.  They  walked  for  some  distance  down  the 
road.  He  hailed  a  cab  and  drove  away  with  her. 

"He  said  he  loved  me,"  said  Carlotta,  "and  he  kissed 
me,  and  he  told  me  I  must  go  away  with  him  to  Paris  and 
marry  him.  And  I  felt  all  weak,  like  that — "  she  dropped 
her  arms  helplessly  in  an  expressive  gesture,  "  and  so  what 
could  I  do?" 
18 


274    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"Didn't  you  think,  Carlotta,  that  I  might  be  sorry — 
perhaps  unhappy?"  I  asked  as  gently  as  I  could. 

"He  said  you  would  be  quite  happy  with  the  other 
woman." 

"  Did  you  believe  him  ?  " 

"That's  why  I  said  I  have  been  very  wicked,"  Carlotta 
answered,  simply. 

She  went  on  with  her  story — an  old,  miserable,  detest- 
able, execrable  story.  At  first  all  went  merrily.  Then  she 
fell  ill  in  Paris.  It  was  her  first  acquaintance  with  the 
northern  winter.  Her  throat  proved  to  be  delicate  and 
she  was  laid  up  with  bronchitis.  To  men  of  Pasquale's 
type,  a  woman  ill  is  of  no  more  use  than  a  spavined  horse  or 
a  broken-down  motor-car.  More  than  that,  she  becomes 
an  infernal  nuisance.  It  was  in  his  temperament  to  per- 
form sporadic  acts  of  fantastic  chivalry.  It  appealed  to 
something  romantic,  theatrical,  in  his  facile  nature.  But 
to  devote  himself  to  a  woman  in  sickness — that  was  differ- 
ent. The  fifteenth  century  Italian  hated  like  the  devil 
continued  association  with  pain.  He  would  have  thrown 
his  boots  to  a  beggar,  but  he  would  have  danced  in  his  pal- 
ace over  the  dungeons  where  his  brother  rotted  in  obscurity. 

So  poor  Carlotta  was  neglected,  and  began  to  eat  the 
bread  of  disillusion.  When  she  got  well,  there  was  a  faint 
recrudescence  of  affection.  Has  not  this  story  been  writ- 
ten a  million  miserable  times?  Why  should  I  rend  my 
heart  again  by  retelling  it  ?  Wild  rages,  jealousies,  quar- 
rels, tears — 

"  And  then  one  day  he  said,  *  You  damned  little  fool,  I  am 
sick  to  death  of  you,'  and  he  went  away,  and  I  never  saw 
him  again.  He  wrote  and  he  sent  his  valet  to  put  me  in 
the  pension." 

"And  yet,  Carlotta,"  said  I  bitterly,  "you  would  go 
back  to  him  if  he  sent  for  you  ?  " 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     275 

She  sprang  forward  and  gripped  me  by  the  arm — I  was 
sitting  quite  close  to  her — and  her  face  wore  the  terror- 
stricken  expression  of  a  child  frightened  with  bogies. 

"Go  back?  After  what  he  has  done  to  me?  You 
would  not  send  me  back  ?  Seer  Marcous,  darling,  you  will 
keep  me  with  you  ?  I  will  be  good,  good,  good.  But  go 
back  to  Pasquale  ?  Oh,  no-o-o!" 

She  fell  back  in  her  sofa-corner,  and  fixed  her  great,  deep 
imploring  eyes  on  me. 

"My  dear,"  said  I,  "you  know  this  is  your  home  as 
long  as  ever  you  choose  to  stay  in  it — but — "  and  I  stroked 
her  hair  gently — "if  he  comes  back  when  your  child  is 
bom — his  child — " 

She  drew  herself  up  superbly. 

"It  is  my  child — my  very,  very  own,"  cried  Carlotta. 
"It  is  mine,  mine — and  I  shall  not  allow  any  one  to  touch 
it — "  and  then  her  face  softened — "except  Seer  Marcous." 


CHAPTER  XXHI 

Behold  Carlotta  again  installed  in  my  house  which  she 
regarded  as  her  home.  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  sow 
any  doubt  thereof  in  her  mind. 

I  had  learned  perhaps  one  lesson:  the  meaning  of  love. 
The  love  that  is  desire  alone,  though  sung  in  all  romance  of 
all  the  ages,  is  of  the  brute  nature  and  is  doomed  to  perish. 
The  love  that  pardons,  endures  through  wrong,  contents 
itself  in  abnegation,  is  of  the  imperishable  things  that  draw 
weak  man  a  little  nearer  to  the  angels.  When  Carlotta 
wept  upon  my  shoulder  during  those  few  first  moments 
of  her  return  I  knew  that  all  resentment  was  gone  from  my 
heart,  that  it  would  have  been  a  poor,  ignoble  thing.  Had 
she  come  back  to  me  leprous  of  body  and  abominable  of 
spirit,  it  would  not  have  mattered.  I  would  have  for- 
given her,  loved  her,  cherished  her  just  the  same.  It  was 
a  question,  not  of  reason,  not  of  human  pity,  not  of  quixo- 
tism; not  of  any  argument  or  sentiment  for  which  I  could 
be  responsible.  I  was  helpless,  obeying  a  reflex  action  of 
the  soul. 

The  days  passed  tranquilly.  In  spite  of  pain  I  felt  an 
odd  happiness.  I  had  nothing  selfishly  to  hope  for.  Per- 
haps I  had  aged  five  years  in  one,  and  I  viewed  life  differ- 
ently. It  was  enough  for  me  that  she  had  come  home,  to 
the  haven  where  no  harm  could  befall  her.  She  was  my 
appointed  task,  even  as  her  husband  was  Judith's.  I  rec- 
ognised in  myself  the  man  with  the  one  talent.  The  deep 
wisdom  of  the  parable  can  be  taken  to  inmost  heart  for 
comfort  only  by  men  of  little  destinies.  With  infinite  love 

276  _ 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     277 

and  patience  to  mould  Carlotta  into  a  sweet,  good  woman, 
a  wise  mother  of  the  child  that  was  to  be — that  was  the  in- 
glorious task  which  Providence  had  set  me  to  accomplish. 
In  its  proportion  to  the  aggregate  of  human  effort  it  was 
infinitesimal.  But  who  shall  say  that  it  was  not  worth  the 
doing  ?  Save  writing  a  useless  book,  in  what  other  sphere 
of  sublunar  energy  could  I  have  been  effectual  ?  I  did  not 
thus  analyse  my  attitude  at  the  time;  the  man  who  does 
so  is  a  poser,  a  mime  to  his  own  audience;  but  looking 
back,  I  think  I  was  guided  by  some  such  unformulated 
considerations. 

Although  my  hermit  mania  was  in  itself  radically  cured, 
yet  I  altered  nothing  in  my  relations  with  the  outside 
world.  I  wrote  to  Judith  a  brief  account  of  what  had 
occurred  and  received  from  her  a  sympathetic  answer. 
My  reading  among  the  Mystics  and  Thaumaturgists  put 
me  on  the  track  of  Arabic.  I  found  that  Carlotta  knew 
enough  of  the  language  to  give  me  elementary  instruction, 
and  thus  the  whirligig  of  time  brought  in  its  revenge  by 
constituting  me  her  pupil,  to  our  joint  edification. 

After  a  while  the  unhappiness  of  the  past  seemed  to  have 
faded  from  her  mind.  She  spoke  little  of  Paris,  less  of  the 
dull  pension,  and  never  of  Pasquale.  She  bore  towards  him 
an  animal's  silent  animosity  against  a  human  being  who 
has  done  it  an  unforgettable  injury.  On  the  other  hand, 
as  I  have  since  discovered,  she  was  slowly  developing,  and 
had  begun  to  realise  that  in  giving  herself  light-heartedly 
to  a  man  whom  she  did  not  love,  she  had  committed  a  crime 
against  her  sex,  for  which  she  had  paid  a  heavy  penalty: 
a  sentiment,  however,  which  did  not  mitigate  her  resent- 
ment against  him.  Often  I  saw  her  sitting  with  knitted 
brows,  her  needlework  idle  on  her  lap,  evidently  unrav- 
elling some  complicated  problem;  presently  she  would 
either  shake  her  head  saoUy  as  if  the  intellectual  process 


278    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

were  too  hard  for  her  and  resume  her  needle,  or  if  she  hap- 
pened to  catch  my  glance,  she  would  start,  smile  reassur- 
ingly at  me,  and  apply  herself  with  exaggerated  zeal  to  her 
work.  These  fits  of  abstraction  were  not  those  of  a  woman 
speculating  on  mysteries  of  the  near  future.  Such  Car- 
lotta  also  indulged  in,  and  they  were  easy  to  recognise,  by 
the  dreaminess  of  her  eyes  and  the  faint  smile  flickering 
about  her  lips.  The  moods  of  knitted  brows  were  periods 
of  soul-travail,  and  I  wondered  what  they  would  bring 
forth. 

One  afternoon  I  came  home  and  found  her  weeping 
over  a  book.  When  I  bent  down  to  see  what  she  was  read- 
ing— she  had  acquired  a  taste  for  novels  during  the  dull 
pension  time  in  Paris — she  caught  my  head  with  both 
hands. 

"Oh,  Seer  Marcous,  do  you  think  they  ought  to  make 
me  wear  a  great '  A'  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked. 

"Like  Hester  Prynne — see." 

She  showed  me  Nathaniel  Hawthorne's  "  Scarlet  Letter. " 

"  What  made  you  take  this  out  of  the  shelves  ?" 

"The  title,"  she  replied,  simply.  "I  am  so  fond  of  red 
things;  but  I  should  not  like  that  great  red  'A.'" 

"Those  were  days,"  said  I,  "when  people  thought  they 
could  only  be  good  by  being  very  cruel." 

"They  would  have  been  more  cruel  if  Hester  had  not 
loved  the  minister,"  said  Carlotta,  looking  at  me  wistfully. 

"My  dear  little  girl,"  said  I,  seeing  whither  her  thoughts 
were  tending,  "do  not  bother  your  brain  with  psychologi- 
cal problems." 

"What  are—?"  began  Carlotta. 

I  pinched  the  question,  as  it  were,  out  of  her  cheek  and 
smiled  and  took  away  the  book. 

"They  are  a  dreadful  disease  my  little  girl  has  been 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     279 

afflicted  with  for  some  time.  When  you  sit  and  wrinkle 
your  forehead  like  this,"  and  I  scowled  forbiddingly, 
whereat  Carlotta  laughed,  "you  are  suffering  from  acute 
psychological  problem." 

"Then  I  am  thinking,"  said  Carlotta,  reflectively. 

"Don't  think  too  much,  dear,  just  now,"  said  I.  "It  is 
best  for  you  to  be  happy  and  calm  and  contented.  Other- 
wise I'll  have  to  tell  the  doctor,  and  he'll  give  you  the 
blackest  and  nastiest  physic  you  have  ever  tasted." 

"To  cure  me  of  a  what-you-call-it  problem?" 

"Yes,"  said  I,  emphatically. 

"Houl"  laughed  Carlotta  in  a  superior  way,  "physic 
can't  cure  that." 

"You  are  relying  on  an  exploded  fallacy  immortalised 
in  a  hackneyed  Shakespearian  quotation,"  I  remarked. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Carlotta,  encouragingly. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked,  taken  aback. 

"Oh,  you  darling  Seer  Marcous,"  cried  Carlotta.  "It 
is  so  lovely  to  hear  you  talk!" 

So  I  went  on  talking,  and  the  distress  occasioned  by  the 
"Scarlet  Letter"  was  forgotten. 

I  have  mentioned  Carlotta's  needlework.  This  was 
undertaken  at  the  sapient  instigation  of  Antoinette,  who  in 
her  turn,  I  am  sure,  neglected  the  ladle  for  the  scissors,  and 
cast  many  of  her  duties  upon  the  silent  but  sympathetic 
Stenson.  Carlotta  herself  delighted  in  these  preparations. 
She  was  never  happier  than  when  curled  up  on  the  sofa,  a 
box  of  chocolates  by  her  side,  her  work-basket  frothing 
over,  like  a  great  dish  of  ceufs  h  la  neige,  with  lawn  or  mull 
or  what-not,  and  (I  verily  believe  to  complete  her  content) 
my  ungainly  figure  and  hatchet-face  within  her  purview. 
She  would  eat  and  sew  industriously.  Sometimes  she 
would  press  too  hard  on  a  sweetmeat  and  with  a  little  cry 
would  hold  up  a  sticky  finger  and  thumb. 


28 o    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"Look,"  she  would  say,  puckering  up  her  face. 

And  to  save  from  soilure  the  dainty  fabric  she  was  work- 
ing at,  I  would  rise  and  wipe  her  fingers  with  my  handker- 
chief; whereupon  she  would  coo  out  the  sweetest  "thank 
you,"  in  the  world,  and  perhaps  hold  up  a  diminutive 
garment. 

"Isn't  it  pretty?" 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  I  would  say,  and  I  would  turn  aside 
wondering  at  the  exquisite  refinements  of  pain  that  men 
were  sometimes  called  upon  to  bear. 

At  last  the  time  came.  I  sat  up  all  night  in  a  torture  of 
suspense,  having  got  it  into  my  foolish  head  that  Carlotta 
might  die.  The  doctor  came  upon  me  at  six  in  the  morn- 
ing sitting  half  frozen  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  When 
he  gave  me  his  cheery  news  he  seemed  to  develop  from  a 
middle-aged,  commonplace  man  into  a  radiant  archangel. 

I  met  Antoinette  soon  afterwards,  busy,  important,  ex- 
ultant. She  nevertheless  graciously  accorded  me  a  brief 
interview. 

"And  to  think,  Monsieur,"  she  exclaimed,  as  if  the 
crowning  triumph  of  a  million  aeons  of  evolution  had  at 
last  been  attained,  "to  think  that  it  is  a  boy!" 

"  You  would  have  been  just  as  pleased  if  it  had  been  a 
girl,"  said  I. 

She  shook  her  wise,  fat  head.  "Women — ga  ne  vaut 
pas  grand'  chose." 

Let  it  be  remembered  that  "women  are  of  no  great  ac- 
count" is  a  sentiment  expressed,  not  by  me,  but  by  An- 
toinette. But  all  the  same  I  soon  found  myself  a  cipher  in 
the  house,  where  the  triumvirate  of  the  negligeable  sex, 
Antoinette,  the  nurse  and  Carlotta,  reigned  despotically. 

To  write  much  of  Carlotta's  happiness  would  be  to 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     281 

treat  of  sacred  things  at  which  I  can  only  guess.  She 
dwelt  in  rapture.  The  joy  and  meaning  of  the  universe 
were  concentrated  in  the  tiny  bundle  of  pink  flesh  that  lay 
on  her  bosom.  I  used  to  sit  by  her  side  while  she  talked 
unwearyingly  of  him.  He  was  a  thing  of  infinite  perfec- 
tions. He  had  such  a  lot  of  hair. 

"She  won't  believe,  sir,"  said  the  nurse,  "that  it  will  all 
drop  off  and  a  new  crop  come." 

"  Oh-h ! "  said  Carlotta.  "  It  can't  be  so  cruel.  For  it  is 
my  hair — see,  Seer  Marcous,  darling,  isn't  it  just  my  hair  ?  '* 

It  was  her  great  solicitude  that  the  boy  should  resemble 
her. 

"I  don't  know  about  his  nose,"  she  remarked  critically. 
"  There  is  so  little  of  it  yet  and  it  is  so  soft — feel  how  soft 
it  is.  But  his  eyes  are  brown  like  mine,  and  his  mouth — 
now  look,  aren't  they  just  the  same?" 

She  put  her  cheek  next  to  the  child's  and  invited  me  to 
compare  the  two  adjacent  baby  mouths.  They  were,  of  a 
truth,  very  much  alike. 

She  was  jealous  of  the  baby,  desirous  of  having  it  always 
with  her  to  tend  and  fondle,  impatient  of  the  nurse  and 
Antoinette.  It  was  a  thing  so  intensely  hers  that  she  re- 
sented other  hands  touching  it.  Oddly  enough,  of  me  she 
made  an  exception.  Nothing  delighted  her  more  than  to 
put  the  little  creature  into  my  awkward  and  nervous  arms, 
and  watch  me  carry  it  about  the  room.  I  think  she  wanted 
to  give  me  something,  and  this  share  in  the  babe  was  the 
most  precious  gift  she  could  devise. 

Of  Pasquale  she  continued  to  say  nothing.  In  her  in- 
tense joy  of  motherhood  he  seemed  to  have  become  the 
dim  creature  of  a  dream.  I  had  registered  the  birth  with- 
out consulting  her — in  the  legal  names  of  the  parents. 

"What  are  you  going  to  call  him,  Carlotta  ?"  I  asked  one 
day. 


282     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"Mon  petit  chou.  That's  what  Antoinette  says.  It's  a 
beautiful  name." 

"  There  are  many  points  in  calling  an  infant  one's  little 
cabbage,"  I  admitted,  "but  soon  he'll  grow  up  to  be  as  old 
as  I  am,  and — "  I  sighed — "who  would  call  me  their 
$etit  chou?" 

Carlotta  laughed. 

"That  is  true.  We  shall  have  to  find  a  name."  She 
reflected  for  a  few  moments;  then  put  her  arms  round  my 
neck  and  continued  her  reflections. 

"  He  shall  be  Marcus — another  Marcus  Ordeyne.  Then 
perhaps  some  day  he  will  be  'Seer  Marcous'  like  you." 

"Do  you  mean  when  I  die?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  not  for  years  and  years  and  years!"  she  cried, 
tightening  her  clasp  in  alarm.  "  But  the  child  lives  longer 
than  the  father.  It  is  fate.  He  will  live  longer  than  I." 

"Let  us  hope  so,  dear,"  I  answered.  "But  it  is  just 
because  I  am  not  his  father  that  he  can't  be  Sir  Marcus 
when  I  die.  He  can  have  my  name;  but  my  title — " 

"Who  will  have  it?" 

"No  one." 

«' It  will  die  too?" 

*'  It  will  be  quite  dead." 

"You  are  his  father,  you  know,  really,"  she  whispered. 

"  The  law  of  England  takes  no  count,  unfortunately,  of 
things  of  the  spirit,"  said  I. 

"What  are  things  of  the  spirit?" 

"The  things,  my  dear,"  said  I,  "that  you  are  beginning 
to  understand."  I  bent  down  and  kissed  the  child  as  it  lay 
on  her  lap.  "Poor  little  Marcus  Ordeyne,"  I  said.  "My 
poor  quaintly  fathered  little  son,  I'm  afraid  there  is  much 
trouble  ahead  of  you,  but  I'll  do  my  best  to  help  you 
through  it." 

"  Bless  you,  dear,"  said  Carlotta,  softly. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     283 

I  looked  at  her  in  wonder.  She  had  spoken  for  the  first 
time  like  a  grown  woman — like  a  woman  with  a  soul. 

A  few  weeks  later. 

We  were  sitting  at  breakfast.  The  morning  newspaper 
contained  the  account  of  a  battle  and  the  lists  of  British 
officers  killed.  I  scanned  as  usual  the  melancholy  col- 
umns, when  a  name  among  the  dead  caught  my  eye — and 
I  stared  at  it  stupidly.  Pasquale  was  dead,  killed  outright 
by  a  Boer  bullet.  The  wild,  bright  life  was  ended.  It 
seemed  a  horrible  thing,  and,  much  as  he  had  wronged 
me,  my  first  sentiment  was  one  of  dismay.  He  was  too. 
gallant  and  beautiful  a  creature  for  death. 

Carlotta  poured  out  my  tea  and  came  round  with  the 
cup  which  she  deposited  by  my  side.  To  prevent  her  peep- 
ing over  my  shoulder  at  the  paper,  as  she  usually  did,  I 
laid  it  on  the  table;  but  her  quick  eye  had  already  read 
the  great  headlines. 

"  Great  Battle.  British  officers  killed.  Oh,  let  me  see, 
Seer  Marcous." 

"No,  dear,"  said  I.    "Go  and  eat  your  breakfast." 

She  looked  at  me  strangely.  I  tried  to  smile;  but  as  I 
am  an  incompetent  actor  my  grimace  was  a  proclamation. 
of  disingenuousness. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  read  it?"  she  asked,  quickly. 

"Because  I  say  you  mustn't,  Carlotta." 

She  continued  to  look  at  me.  She  had  suddenly  grown 
pole.  I  stirred  my  tea  and  made  a  pretence  of  sipping  it. 

"  Go  on  with  your  breakfast,  my  child,"  I  repeated. 

"There  is  something — something  about  him  in  the  pa- 
per," said  Carlotta.  "He  L  a  British  officer." 

In  the  face  of  her  intuition  further  concealment  appeared 
useless.  Besides,  sooner  or  later  she  would  have  to  know. 

"He  is  a  British  officer  no  longer,  dear,"  said  I. 


284    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"Is  he  dead?" 

My  mind  flew  back  to  an  evening  long  ago — long,  long 
ago  it  seemed — when  another  newspaper  had  told  of  an- 
other death,  and  my  ears  caught  the  echo  of  the  identical 
question  that  had  then  fallen  from  her  lips.  I  dreaded 
lest  she  should  say  again,  "I  am  so  glad." 

I  beckoned  her  to  my  side,  and  pointing  with  my  finger 
to  the  name  watched  her  face  anxiously.  She  read,  stared 
for  a  bit  in  front  of  her  and  turned  to  me  with  a  piteous 
look.  I  drew  her  to  me,  and  she  laid  her  face  against  my 
shoulder. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I'm  crying,  Seer  Marcous,  dear,"  she 
said,  after  a  while. 

I  made  her  drink  some  of  my  tea,  but  she  would  eat 
nothing,  and  presently  she  went  upstairs.  She  had  not 
said  that  she  was  glad.  She  had  wept  and  not  known  the 
reason  for  her  tears.  I  railed  at  myself  for  my  doubts  of 
her. 

She  was  subdued  and  thoughtful  all  the  day.  In  the 
evening,  instead  of  curling  herself  up  in  the  sofa-corner 
among  the  cushions,  she  sat  on  a  stool  by  my  feet  as  I 
read,  one  hand  supporting  her  chin,  the  other  resting  on 
my  knee. 

"I  am  glad  he  was  a  brave  man,"  she  said  at  last,  allud- 
ing to  Pasquale  for  the  first  time  since  the  morning.  "I 
like  brave  men." 

"Duke  et  decorum  est.    He  died  for  his  country,"  said  I. 

"It  does  not  hurt  me  now  so  much  to  think  of  him," 
said  Carlotta. 

I  could  not  help  feeling  a  miserable  pang  of  jealousy  at 
Pasquale's  posthumous  rehabilitation  as  a  hero  in  Car- 
lotta's  heart.  Yet,  was  it  not  natural?  Was  it  not  the 
way  of  women?  I  saw  myself  far  remote  from  her,  and 
though  she  never  spoke  of  him  again  I  divined  that  her 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     285 

thoughts  dwelt  not  untenderly  on  his  memory.  I  was 
absurd,  I  know.  But  I  had  begun  almost  to  believe  in  my 
make-believe  paternity,  and  I  was  jealous  of  the  rightful 
claims  of  the  dead  man. 

And  yet  had  he  lived  he  might  have  come  back  one  day 
with  his  conquering  air  and  his  irresistible  laugh,  and 
carried  them  both  away  from  me.  In  sparing  me  this 
crowning  humiliation  I  thanked  the  high  gods. 

But  never  to  this  day  has  she  mentioned  his  name  again. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

How  shall  I  set  down  that  which  happened  not  long 
afterwards  ? 

The  death  of  a  baby  is  so  commonplace,  so  unimpor- 
tant. Few  reasoning  people,  viewing  the  matter  in  the 
abstract,  can  do  otherwise  than  rejoice  that  a  human  being 
is  saved  from  the  weariness  of  the  tired  years  that  make  up 
life.  For  who  shall  disprove  the  pessimist's  assertion  that 
it  is  better  not  to  have  been  born  than  to  come  into  the 
world,  and  that  it  is  better  to  die  than  to  live?  But  those 
from  whom  the  single  hope  of  their  existence  is  ravished 
find  little  consolation  in  reason.  Grief  is  the  most  in- 
tensely egotistical  of  emotions.  I  have  lost  all  that  makes 
life  beautiful  to  me.  Is  not  that  enough  for  the  stricken 
soul? 

To  Carlotta  it  meant  a  passage  through  the  valley  of  the 
shadow.  To  me,  at  first,  it  meant  the  life  of  Carlotta,  and 
then  a  blank  in  my  newly  ordered  scheme  of  things.  The 
curse  of  ineffectually  still  pursued  me.  I  had  allotted  to 
myself  my  humble  task — the  development  of  the  new  gen- 
eration in  the  form  of  Carlotta's  boy,  and  even  that  small 
usefulness  was  I  denied  by  Fate. 

A  chill,  a  touch  of  croup,  an  agonised  watching,  and  the 
tiny  thing  lay  dead.  Antoinette  and  I  had  to  drag  it  stone 
cold  from  Carlotta's  bosom.  I  alone  carried  it  to  burial. 
The  little  white  coffin  rested  on  the  opposite  seat  of  the 
hired  brougham,  and  on  it  was  a  bunch  of  white  flowers 
given  by  Antoinette.  In  the  cemetery  chapel  another  frag- 
ment of  humanity  awaited  sepulture,  and  the  funeral  ser- 
vice was  read  over  both  bodies.  I  stood  alone  by  the  little 

386 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     287 

white  coffin.  A  crowd  of  mourners  were  grouped  beside 
the  black  one.  I  glanced  at  the  inscription  as  I  passed: 
"Jane  Elliot,  in  the  eighty-sixth  year  of  her  age."  The 
officiant  referred  in  the  service  to  "our  dear  brother  and 
sister,  here  departed. "  It  was  either  an  awful  jest  or  an 
awful  verity. 

My  "quaintly  fathered  little  son"  had  small  need  of  my 
help  through  the  troubles  of  his  life.  His  mother  needed 
all  that  I  could  give.  Without  me  she  would  have  died. 
That  I  verily  believe.  I  was  her  solitary  plank  in  the 
welter  wherein  she  would  have  been  submerged.  She 
clung  to  me — literally  clung  to  me.  I  sat  for  hours  with 
her  grasp  upon  me.  To  feel  assured  of  my  physical  pres- 
ence alone  seemed  to  bring  her  calm. 

Recent  as  are  those  sleepless  days  and  nights,  their  mem- 
ory is  all  confused.  The  light  burning  dimly  in  the  familiar 
chamber  which  I  had  once  sealed  up  as  a  tomb ;  the  shad- 
ows on  the  wall;  the  fevered  face  and  great  hollow  eyes  of 
Carlotta  against  the  pillows;  her  little  hand  clutching 
mine  in  desperation;  the  soft  tread  of  the  nurse,  that  is  all 
I  remember.  And  when  she  recovered  her  wits  and  grew 
sane,  although  for  a  long  time  she  spoke  little,  and  scarcely 
noticed  me  otherwise,  she  claimed  me  by  her  side.  She 
was  still  dazed  by  the  misery  of  her  darkness.  It  was  only 
then  that  I  realised  the  part  the  child  had  played  in  her 
development.  Her  nature  had  been  stirred  to  the  quick; 
the  capacity  for  emotion  had  been  awakened.  She  had 
left  me  without  a  qualm.  She  had  given  herself  to  Pas- 
quale  without  a  glimmer  of  passion.  She  had  returned  to 
me  like  a  wounded  animal  seeking  its  home.  For  the  child 
alone  the  passionate  human  love  had  sprung  flaming  from 
the  seed  hidden  in  her  soul.  And  now  the  child  was  dead, 
and  the  sun  had  gone  from  her  sky,  and  she  was  benumbed 
with  the  icy  blackness  of  the  world. 


288 

Then  came  a  time  when  her  speech  was  loosened  and 
she  talked  to  me  incessantly  of  the  child,  until  one  day  she 
spoke  of  it  as  living  and  clamoured  for  it,  and  relapsed 
into  her  fever. 

At  last  one  morning  she  awakened  from  a  sound  sleep 
and  found  me  watching;  for  I  had  relieved  the  nurse  at 
six  o'clock.  She  smiled  at  me  for  the  first  time  since  the 
child  fell  sick,  and  took  my  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"It  is  like  waking  into  heaven  to  see  your  face,  Seer 
Marcous,  darling,"  she  whispered. 

"  I  hope  heaven  is  peopled  by  a  better-looking  set  of  fel- 
lows," I  said. 

"Houl"  laughed  Carlotta.  "Don't  you  know  you  are 
beautiful?" 

"You  mustn't  throw  an  old  jest  in  my  teeth,  Carlotta," 
said  I,  and  I  reminded  her  how  she  had  once  screamed 
with  laughter  when  I  had  told  her  I  was  very  beautiful. 

Carlotta  listened  patiently  until  I  had  ended,  and  then 
she  said,  with  a  little  sigh: 

"You  cannot  understand,  Seer  Marcous,  darling.  I 
have  been  thinking  of  my  little  baby  and  the  angels — and 
all  the  angels  are  like  you." 

To  cover  the  embarrassment  my  modesty  underwent,  I 
laughed  and  drew  the  picture  of  myself  with  long  flaxen 
hair  and  white  wings. 

"My  angels  hadn't  got  wings,"  said  Carlotta,  seriously. 
"They  all  wore  dressing-gowns.  They  were  real  angels. 
And  the  one  that  was  most  like  you  brought  my  baby  in 
his  arms  for  me  to  kiss;  and  when  he  put  it  on  a  white 
cloud  to  sleep,  and  took  me  up  in  his  arms  instead  and 
carried  me  away,  away,  away  through  the  air,  I  didn't  cry 
at  leaving  baby.  Wasn't  that  funny  ?  I  snuggled  up  close 
to  him — like  that" — she  illustrated  the  action  of  "snug- 
gling" beneath  the  bed-clothes — "and  it  was  so  comfy." 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     289 

The  pale  sunshine  of  a  fine  February  morning  filtered 
into  the  room  from  behind  the  curtains.  I  turned  off  the 
dimmed  electric  lamp  and  let  full  daylight  into  the  room. 

"Oh!"  cried  Carlotta,  turning  to  the  window,  "how 
lovely  the  good  sun  is!  It  is  more  like  heaven  than  ever. 
Do  you  know,"  she  added,  mysteriously,  "just  before  I 
woke  it  was  all  dark,  and  I  had  lost  my  angels  and  I  was 
looking  for  them." 

I  counselled  her  sagely  to  look  for  no  more  members  of 
the  Hierarchy  en  deshabillS,  but  to  content  herself  with  the 
humbler  denizens  of  this  planet.  She  pressed  my  hand. 

"I'll  try  to  be  contented,  Seer  Marcous,  darling." 

She  did  her  best,  poor  child,  when  I  was  by;  but  I 
heard  that  often  she  would  sit  by  a  little  pile  of  garments 
and  take  them  up  one  by  one  and  cry  her  heart  out — so 
that  though  she  quickly  recovered,  her  cheeks  remained 
wan  and  drawn,  and  pain  lingered  in  her  eyes.  The 
weather  changed  to  fog  and  damp  and  she  spent  the  days 
crouching  by  the  fire,  sometimes  not  stirring  a  muscle  for 
an  hour  together.  Her  favourite  seat  was  the  fender- 
stool  in  the  drawing-room.  Her  own  boudoir  downstairs, 
where  she  used  to  receive  instruction  from  the  excellent 
Miss  Griggs,  she  scarcely  entered. 

She  broke  one  of  these  fits  suddenly  and  called  me  by 
her  own  pet  version  of  my  name.  I  looked  up  from  tha 
writing-table  where  I  was  studying  the  Arabic  grammar. 

"Yes?" 

"I  have  been  thinking — oh,  thinking,  thinking  so  long. 
I've  been  thinking  that  you  must  love  me  very  much." 

"  Yes,  Carlotta,"  said  I,  with  a  half  smile.  "  I  suppose  I 
do." 

"As  much  as  I  loved  my  baby,"  she  said,  seriously. 

"I  used  to  love  you  in  a  different  way,  perhaps." 

"And  now?" 
19 


290     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"Perhaps  in  the  same  sort  of  way,  Carlotta." 

"I  loved  my  baby  because  it  was  mine,"  she  remarked, 
looking  at  the  flames  through  one  hand's  delicate  fingers. 
"  I  wanted  to  do  everything  for  him  and  didn't  want  him 
to  do  anything  for  me.  I  would  have  died  for  him.  It  is 
so  strange.  Yes,  I  think  you  must  love  me  like  that,  Seer 
Marcous.  Why  ? ' ' 

"Because  when  I  found  you  in  the  Embankment  Gar- 
dens nearly  two  years  ago  you  were  about  as  helpless  as 
your  little  baby,"  I  replied,  somewhat  disingenuously. 

Carlotta  gave  me  a  quick  glance. 

"You  thought  me  then  what  you  call  an  infernal  nui- 
sance. Oh,  I  know  now.  I  have  grown  wise.  But  you 
were  always  good.  You  looked  good  when  you  sat  on  the 
seat.  You  were  reading  a  dirty  little  book." 

"UHistoire  des  Uscoques"  I  murmured.  How  far 
away  it  seemed. 

There  was  a  pause.  I  regarded  her  for  a  moment  or 
two.  She  was  sunk  again  in  serious  reflection.  I  sighed 
— at  the  general  dismalness  of  life,  I  suppose — and  re- 
sumed my  Arabic. 

"  Seer  Marcous." 

"Yes?" 

"Why  didn't  you  drive  me  away  when  I  came  back?" 

I  shut  up  the  Arabic  grammar  and  went  and  sat  beside 
her  on  the  fender-stool. 

"My  dear  little  girl — what  a  question!  How  could  I 
drive  you  away  from  your  own  home?" 

She  flashed  a  queer,  scared  look  at  me,  then  at  the  fire, 
then  at  me  again  and  then  burst  out  crying,  her  head  and 
arms  on  her  knees. 

I  muttered  a  man's  words  of  awkward  comfort,  saying 
something  about  the  baby. 

"  It  isn't  baby  I'm  crying  about, "  sobbed  Carlotta.   "  If  8 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     291 

me!    And  it's  you!    And  it's  all  the  things  I'm  beginning 
to  understand." 

I  patted  her  head  and  lit  a  cigarette  and  wandered  about 
the  room,  rather  puzzled  by  Carlotta's  psychological  de- 
velopment, and  yet  stirred  by  a  faint  thrill  at  her  recogni- 
tion of  my  affection.  At  the  same  time  the  sad  "too  late, 
too  late,"  was  knelled  in  my  ears,  and  I  thought  of  the 
might-have-been,  and  rode  the  merry-go-round  of  re- 
gret's banalities.  I  had  grown  old.  Passion  had  died. 
Hope — the  hope  of  hearing  the  patter  of  a  child's  feet  about 
my  house,  the  hope  of  pride  in  a  quasi-paternity,  of  hand- 
ing on,  vicariously  though  it  were,  the  torch  of  life — hope 
was  dead  and  it  was  buried  in  a  little  white  coffin.  Only  a 
great,  quiet  love  remained.  I  was  a  tired  old  man,  and  Car- 
lotta  was  to  me  an  infinitely  loved  sister — or  daughter — or 
granddaughter  even — so  old  did  I  feel.  And  when  I  raised 
her  from  the  fender-stool,  and  kissed  the  tears  from  her 
eyes,  it  was  as  grandfatherly  a  kiss  as  had  ever  been  given 
in  this  world. 

The  same  old  problem  again.  What  the  deuce  to  do 
with  Carlotta?  Yet  not  quite  the  same:  rather,  what  the 
deuce  to  do  with  Carlotta  and  myself?  In  our  strange  re- 
lationship we  were  inextricably  bound  together. 

First,  she  needed  sunshine — instead  of  the  forlorn  bleak- 
ness of  an  English  spring — and  a  change  from  this  house 
of  pain  and  death.  And  then  I,  too,  felt  the  need  of 
wider  horizons.  London  had  grown  to  be  a  nightmare 
city  which  I  never  entered.  Its  restless  ambitions  were 
not  mine.  Its  pleasures  pleased  me  not.  With  not  five  of 
its  five  million  inhabitants  dared  I  speak  heart  to  heart. 
Judith  had  gone  out  of  my  life.  My  aunts  and  cousins  re- 
garded me  as  beyond  the  moral  pale.  Mrs.  McMurray  was 
still  unaware  of  my  return  to  England.  I  confess  to  shabby 


292    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

treatment  of  my  kind  friend.  I  know  she  would  have  flown 
to  aid  Carlotta  in  her  troubles;  but  would  she  have  under- 
stood Carlotta  ?  Reasoning  now  I  am  convinced  that  she 
would:  in  those  days  I  did  not  reason.  I  shrank  like  a 
snail  into  its  shell.  The  simile  is  commonplace;  but  so 
was  I — the  most  commonplace  human  snail  that  ever  oc- 
cupied a  commonplace  ten-roomed  shell.  And  now  the 
house  and  its  useless  books  and  its  million-fold  more  use- 
less manuscript  "History  of  Renaissance  Morals,"  all  its 
sombre  memories  and  its  haunting  ghosts  of  ineffectualities, 
became  an  unwholesome  prison  in  which  I  was  wasting 
away  a  feeble  existence.  I  resolved  to  quit  it,  to  leave  my 
books,  to  abjure  Renaissance  morals,  and  to  go  forth  with 
Carlotta  into  the  wilderness  and  the  sunshine,  there  to  fulfil 
whatever  destiny  the  high  gods  should  decree. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

Again  I  sit  on  the  housetop  in  Mogador  on  the  Morocco 
coast,  where  a  month  ago  I  began  to  write  these  latter 
pages.  Time  has  passed  quickly  since  that  day. 

I  said  then  that  on  the  previous  afternoon  something  had 
happened.  It  was  something  which  I  might  have  foreseen, 
which,  in  fact,  with  my  habit  of  putting  the  telescope  to 
my  blind  eye,  I  obstinately  had  refused  to  foresee.  Dur- 
ing our  wanderings  I  had  watched  the  flowering  of  her 
splendid  beauty  as  she  drank  in  health  from  the  glow  of 
her  own  Orient.  I  had  noted  the  widening  of  her  intellect, 
the  quickening  of  her  sympathies.  I  had  been  conscious 
of  the  expansion  of  her  soul  in  the  great  silences  when  the 
stars  flamed  over  the  infinite  sea  of  sand.  But  a  growing 
wistfulness  that  was  no  longer  the  old  doglike  pleading 
of  her  glorious  eyes,  a  gathering  sadness  that  was  not  an 
aftermath  of  grief  for  the  child  that  had  gone — into  this, 
if  I  did  remark  it,  I  did  not  choose  to  inquire.  Instead, 
I  continued  my  study  of  Arabic  and  cultivated  the  acquaint- 
ance of  a  learned  Moor  whose  conversation  afforded — 
and  still  affords — me  peculiar  pleasure.  One  of  these  days 
I  shall  make  a  book  of  his  Table-talk.  But  now  I  have  to 
tell  of  Carlotta. 

She  accepted  with  alacrity  my  proposal  that  morning  to 
ride  over  to  the  Palm  Tree  House  for  luncheon,  as  we  had 
done  several  times  before.  To  please  me,  I  think,  she  had 
resolutely  overcome  her  natural  indolence.  So  much  so 
that  she  had  come  to  love  the  nomad  life  of  steamers  and 
caravans,  and  had  grown  restless,  eager  for  fresh  scenes, 
craving  new  impressions.  It  was  I  who  had  cried  a  halt 

293 


294    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

at  Mogador  where  this  furnished  house  to  let,  belonging  to 
a  German  merchant  absent  in  Europe,  tempted  me  to  rest 
awhile.  I  am  not  so  young  as  Carlotta,  and  I  awakened 
to  the  fact  of  a  circumambient  universe  so  many  years  ago 
that  I  have  grown  slumberous.  Carlotta,  if  left  to  herself, 
would  have  gone  on  riding  camels  through  Africa  to  the 
end  of  time.  She  had  changed  in  many  essentials.  In- 
stead of  regarding  me  as  an  amiable  purveyor  of  sweet- 
meats and  other  necessaries  of  life  to  which  by  the  grace  of 
her  being  Carlotta  she  was  entitled,  she  treated  me  with 
human  affection  and  sympathy,  keeping  her  own  wants  in 
the  background,  anxious  only  to  anticipate  mine.  But 
she  still  loved  sweetmeats  and  would  eat  horrible  Moorish 
messes  with  an  avidity  only  equalled  by  my  repugnance. 
She  was  still  the  same  Carlotta.  On  the  other  hand  again, 
she  had  of  late  abandoned  her  caressing  habits.  If  she 
laid  her  hand  on  my  arm,  she  did  it  timorously — whereat 
I  would  laugh  and  she  would  grow  confused.  Once  she 
had  driven  me  to  frenzy  with  her  fondling.  Those  days 
had  passed.  I  told  myself  that  I  was  as  old  as  the  sphinx 
we  had  moralised  over  in  Egypt. 

We  lunched,  then,  at  the  Palm  Tree  House  and  rode 
back  in  the  cool  of  the  afternoon  to  Mogador.  We  were 
alone,  as  we  knew  the  path  across  the  tongue  of  desert, 
and  had  no  need  of  a  guide  and  the  rabble  of  sore-eyed 
urchins  who,  like  their  attendant  flies,  infest  the  tourist  on 
his  journeyings.  On  our  right  the  desert  rose  to  meet  a 
near  horizon;  on  our  left  sandhills  and  boulders  cut  off 
the  view;  ahead  the  shimmering  line  beyond  which  the 
sea  and  city  lay.  We  were  enveloped  by  solitude  and  still- 
ness. In  the  clear  African  air  objects  detached  themselves 
against  the  sky  with  staniing  definition. 

I  had  unconsciously  ridden  a  bit  ahead  of  Carlotta, 
thinking  my  own  thoughts,  and  sighing  as  a  man  often 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     295 

does  sigh,  for  the  vague  unattainable  which  is  happiness. 
Suddenly  I  missed  her  by  my  side,  and  turning  round  saw 
a  sight  that  made  my  heart  beat  with  its  sheer  beauty.  It 
was  only  Carlotta  on  her  barbaricaUy  betrapped  and  be- 
saddled  mule.  But  it  was  Carlotta  glorified  in  colour.  She 
held  above  her  head  a  cotton  parasol,  which  she  had  bought 
to  her  delight  and  my  disgust  in  Mogador;  an  impossible 
thing,  all  deep  cherry  reds  and  yellows;  a  hateful  thing 
made  for  a  pantomime — or  for  this  African  afternoon. 
Outspread  and  luminous  in  the  white  sunlight  its  cherry 
reds  and  yellows  floated  like  translucences  of  wine  above 
Carlotta's  bronze  hair  crowned  by  a  white  sun  hat,  her 
warm  flesh-tints,  and  the  dazzling  white  of  her  surah  silk 
blouse;  the  whole  picture  cut  out  vivid  against  the  indigo 
of  the  sky.  It  was  a  radiant  vision.  I  stared  open- 
mouthed,  smitten  with  the  pang  that  sudden  and  transient 
loveliness  can  sometimes  deal,  as  Carlotta  approached, 
her  figure  swaying  with  the  jog  of  her  barbaric  beast.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  on  mine.  She  halted,  and  for  a  moment  we 
looked  at  one  another;  and  in  those  wonderful  eyes  I  saw 
for  the  first  time  a  beautiful  sadness,  a  spiritual  appeal. 
The  moment  passed.  We  started  again,  side  by  side, 
neither  speaking.  I  did  not  look  at  her,  conscious  of  a 
vague  trouble.  Things  that  I  had  thought  dead  stirred  in 
my  heart. 

Presently  like  a  dawn  of  infinite  delicacy  rose  the  city 
before  us.  Its  fairy  minarets  and  towers  gleamed  first 
white  in  an  atmosphere  of  pale  amethyst  toning  through 
shades  of  green  to  the  blue  of  the  zenith.  And  the  lazy  sea 
lay  at  the  city's  foot  a  pavement  of  lapis  lazuli.  But  all 
was  faint,  unreal.  Far,  far  away  a  group  of  palms  caught 
opalescent  reflections.  A  slight  breeze  had  sprung  up, 
raising  minute  particles  of  sand  which  caused  the  elfland 
on  the  horizon  to  quiver  like  a  mirage. 


296     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"It  is  a  dream-city,"  said  I,  in  admiration. 

Carlotta  did  not  reply.  I  thought  she  had  not  heard. 
We  jogged  on  a  little  in  silence.  At  last  she  drew  very 
close  to  me. 

"Shall  we  ever  get  there?"  she  asked,  pointing  ahead 
with  the  hand  that  held  the  reins. 

"To  Mogador?  Yes,  I  hope  so,"  I  answered  with  a 
laugh.  I  thought  she  was  tired. 

"No,  not  Mogador.  The  dream-city — where  every  one 
wants  to  get." 

"You  have  travelled  far,  my  dear,"  said  I,  "to  hanker 
now  after  dream-cities  and  the  unattainable.  I  knew  a 
little  girl  once  who  would  have  asked:  'What  is  a  dream- 
city?'" 

"She  doesn't  ask  now  because  she  knows,"  replied  Car- 
lotta. "No.  We  shall  never  get  there.  It  looks  as  if  we 
were  riding  straight  into  it — but  when  we  get  close,  it  will 
just  be  Mogador." 

"Aren't  you  happy,  Carlotta?"  I  asked. 

"Are  you,  Seer  Marcous?" 

"  I  ?  I  am  a  pinlosopher/my  child,  and  a  happy  philos- 
opher would  be  a  lusus  natura,  a  freak,  a  subject  for  a 
Barnum  &  Bailey  Show.  If  they  caught  him  they  would 
put  him  between  the  hairy  man  and  the  living  skeleton." 

"I  suppose  I'm  getting  to  be  a  philosopher,  too,"  said 
Carlotta,  "  and  I  hate  it !  Sometimes  I  think  I  hate  every- 
thing and  everybody — save  you,  Seer  Marcous,  darling. 
It's  wicked  of  me.  I  must  have  been  born  wicked.  But  I 
used  to  be  happy.  I  never  wanted  to  go  to  dream-cities. 
I  was  just  like  a  cat.  Like  Polyphemus.  Do  you  remem- 
ber Polyphemus  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  I.  And  then  set  off  my  balance  by  this 
strange  conversation  with  Carlotta,  I  added:  "I  killed 
him." 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne    297 

She  turned  a  startled  face  to  me. 

"You  killed  him?   Why?" 

"He  laughed  at  me  because  I  was  unhappy,"  said  I. 

"Through  me?" 

"Yes;  through  you.  But  that's  neither  here  nor  there. 
We  were  not  discussing  the  death  of  Polyphemus.  We 
were  talking  about  being  philosophers,  and  you  said  that 
as  a  philosopher  you  hated  everything  and  everybody — 
except  me.  Why  do  you  exclude  me,  Carlotta?" 

We  were  riding  so  near  together  that  my  leg  rubbed  her 
saddle-girth.  I  looked  hard  at  her.  She  turned  away  her 
head  and  put  the  pantomime  parasol  between  us.  I  heard 
a  little  choking  sob. 

"Let  us  get  off — and  sit  down  a  little — I  want  to 
cry." 

"The  end  of  all  feminine  philosophy,"  I  said,  somewhat 
brutally.  "No.  It's  getting  late.  That's  only  Mogador 
in  front  of  us.  Let  us  go  to  it." 

Carlotta  shifted  her  parasol  quickly. 

"  What  has  happened  to  you,  Seer  Marcous  ?  You  have 
never  spoken  to  me  like  that  before." 

"The  very  deuce  seems  to  have  happened,"  said  I,  an- 
grily— though  why  I  should  have  felt  angry,  heaven  only 
knows.  "First  you  turn  yourself  into  a  Royal  Academy 
picture  with  that  unspeakable  umbrella  of  yours  and  the 
trumpery  blue  sky  and  sunshine,  and  make  my  sentimental 
soul  ache;  and  then  you — " 

"It's  a  very  pretty  umbrella,"  said  Carlotta,  looking  up- 
wards at  it  demurely. 

"Give  it  to  me,"  I  said. 

She  yielded  it  with  her  usual  docility.  I  cast  it  upon  the 
desert.  Being  open  it  gave  one  or  two  silly  rebounds,  then 
lay  still.  Carlotta  reined  up  her  mule. 

"Oh-h!"  she  said,  in  her  old  way. 


298     The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

I  dismounted  hurriedly,  and  helped  her  down  and  passed 
my  arm  through  the  two  bridles. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  I,  "what  is  the  meaning  of  ali 
this  ?  Here  we  have  been  living  for  months  the  most  tran- 
quil and  unruffled  existence,  and  now  suddenly  you  begin 
to  talk  about  dream-cities  and  the  impossibility  of  getting 
there,  and  I  turn  angry  and  heave  parasols  about  Africa, 
What  is  the  meaning  of  it?" 

The  most  extraordinary  part  of  it  was  that  I  should  be 
treating  Carlotta  as  a  grown-up  woman,  after  the  fashion 
of  the  hero  of  a  modern  French  novel.  Perhaps  I  was 
younger  than  I  thought. 

She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  downward. 

"Why  are  you  angry  with  me?"  she  asked  in  a  low 
voice. 
,    "I  haven't  the  remotest  idea,"  said  I. 

She  lifted  her  eyelids  slowly — oh,  very,  very  slowly, 
glanced  quiveringly  at  me,  while  the  shadow  of  a  smile 
fluttered  round  her  lips.  I  verily  believe  the  baggage  ex- 
ulted in  her  feminine  heart.  I  turned  away,  leading  the 
two  animals,  and  picked  up  the  parasol  which  I  closed 
and  restored  to  her. 

"I  thought  you  wanted  to  cry,"  I  remarked. 

"I  can't,"  said  Carlotta,  plaintively. 

"And  you  won't  tell  me  why  you  exclude  me  from  your 
universal  hatred  ?  " 

Carlotta  dug  up  the  sand  with  the  point  of  her  foot. 
The  sight  of  it  recalled  the  row  of  pink  toes  thrust  un- 
ashamedly before  my  eyes  on  the  second  day  of  her  arrival 
in  London.  An  old  hope,  an  old  fear,  an  old  struggle  re- 
newed themselves.  She  was  more  adorably  beautiful  even 
than  the  Carlotta  of  the  pink  toes,  and  spiritually  she  was 
reborn.  I  heard  her  whisper: 

"I  can't." 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     299 

Now  I  had  sworn  to  myself  all  the  oaths  that  a  man  can 
swear  that  I  should  be  Carlotta's  grandfather  to  the  end  of 
time.  Hitherto  I  had  felt  the  part.  Now  suddenly  grey 
beard  and  slippered  pantaloons  are  cast  aside  and  I  am 
young  again  with  a  glow  in  my  heart  which  beats  fast  at 
her  beauty.  I  shut  my  teeth. 

"No,"  said  I  to  myself.  "The  curtain  shall  not  rise  on 
that  farcical  tragedy  again." 

I  threw  the  reins  on  the  neck  of  Carlotta's  mule,  which 
with  its  companion  had  been  regarding  us  with  bland 
stupidity. 

"I  think  we  had  better  ride  on,  Carlotta,"  I  said. 
"Mount" 

She  meekly  gave  me  her  little  foot  and  I  hoisted  her 
into  the  saddle. 

We  did  not  exchange  a  word  till  we  reached  Mogador. 
But  each  of  us  felt  that  something  had  happened. 

At  dinner  we  met  as  usual.  Carlotta  spoke  somewhat 
feverishly  of  our  travels,  and  asked  me  numberless  ques- 
tions, betraying  an  unprecedented  thirst  for  informa- 
tion. I  never  gave  her  historical  instruction  with  less 
zest. 

After  the  meal  we  went  onto  the  flat  roof.  Carlotta 
poured  out  my  coffee  at  the  small  table  beside  the  long 
Madeira  cane  chair  which  was  my  accustomed  seat.  The 
starlit  night  was  blue  and  languorous.  From  some  cafe 
came  the  monotonous  strains  of  Moorish  music,  the  harsh 
strings  and  harsh  men's  voices  softened  by  the  distance. 
Carlotta  took  my  coffee-cup  when  I  had  finished  and  set 
it  down  in  her  granddaughterly  way.  Then  she  stood  in 
front  of  me. 

"Won't  you  make  a  little  room  for  me  on  your  chair, 
•Seer  Marcous,  darling?" 

I  shifted  my  feet  from  the  foot-rest  and  she  sat  down.    I 


300    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

may  observe  that  I  was  not,  in  oriental  bashawdom,  oc- 
cupying the  one  and  only  chair  on  the  housetop. 

"Tell  me  about  the  stars,"  she  said. 

I  knew  what  she  meant.  She  loved  the  old  Greek 
myths;  their  poetry,  obscured  though  it  was  through  my 
matter-of-fact  prose,  appealed  to  her  young  imagination. 
She  was  passing  through  an  exquisite  phase  of  develop- 
ment. 

I  scanned  the  heavens  for  a  text  and  found  one  in  the 
Pleiades.  And  I  told  her  how  these  were  seven  daughters 
of  Atlas  and  Pleione  who  herself  was  the  daughter  of  the 
Sea,  and  how  they  were  all  pure  maidens,  save  one,  and 
were  the  companions  of  Artemis;  how  Orion  the  hunter, 
who  was  afterwards  slain  by  Artemis  and  whose  three- 
starred  girdle  gleamed  up  there  in  the  sky,  pursued  them 
with  evil  intent,  and  how  they  prayed  the  gods  for  deliv- 
erance and  were  changed  into  the  everlasting  stars;  and, 
lastly,  how  the  one  who  was  not  a  maiden,  for  she  loved  a 
mortal,  shrank  away  from  her  sisters  through  shame  and 
was  invisible  to  the  eye  of  man. 

"She  was  ashamed,"  said  Carlotta  in  a  low  voice,  "be- 
cause she  loved  some  one  afterwards,  one  of  the  gods,  who 
would  not  look  at  her  because  she  had  given  herself  to  a 
mortal.  A  woman  then  has  a  fire  here" — she  clasped  her 
hands  to  her  bosom — "and  wishes  she  could  burn  away 
to  nothing,  nothing,  just  to  air,  and  become  invisible." 

She  was  rising  hurriedly  on  the  last  word,  but  I  brought 
my  hands  down  on  her  shoulders. 

"Carlotta,  my  child,"  said  I,  "what  do  you  mean?" 

She  seized  my  wrists  and  struggling  to  rise,  panted  out 
in  desperation: 

"You  are  one  of  the  gods,  and  I  wish  I  were  changed 
into  an  invisible  star." 

"I  don't,"  said  I,  huskily. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     301 

By  main  force  I  drew  her  to  me  and  our  lips  met.  She 
yielded,  and  this  time  the  whole  soul  of  Carlotta  came  to 
me  in  the  kiss. 

"It's  beautiful  to  snuggle  up  against  you  again,"  said 
my  ever  direct  Carlotta,  after  a  while.  "I  haven't  done  it 
— oh,  for  such  a  long  time."  She  sighed  contentedly. 
"Seer  Marcous — " 

"You  must  call  me  Marcus  now,"  said  I,  somewhat  fat- 
uously. 

She  shook  her  head  as  it  lay  on  my  shoulder.  "No. 
You  are  Marcus — or  Sir  Marcus — to  everybody.  To  me 
you  are  always  Seer  Marcous.  Seer  Marcous,  darling,"  she 
half  whispered  after  a  pause.  "  Once  I  did  not  know  the 
difference  between  a  god  and  a  mortal.  It  was  only  that 
morning  when  I  woke  up — " 

"You  took  me  for  a  saint  in  a  dressing-gown,"  said  I. 

"It's  the  same  thing,"  she  retorted.  And  then  taking 
up  her  parable,  she  told  me  in  her  artless  way  the  inner 
history  of  her  heart  since  that  morning;  but  what  she  said 
is  sacred.  Also,  a  man  feels  himself  to  be  a  pitiful  dog  of 
a  god  when  a  woman  relates  how  she  came  to  establish  him 
on  her  High  Altar. 

Later  we  struck  a  lighter  vein  and  spoke  of  the  present, 
the  enchantment  of  the  hour,  the  scented  air,  the  African 
stars. 

"It  seems,  my  dear,"  said  I,  "that  we  have  got  to 
Nephelococcygia  after  all." 

"What  is  Nephelococcygia?"  asked  Carlotta. 

I  relented.  "It's  a  base  Aristophanic  libel  on  our 
dream-city,"  said  I. 

Thus  out  of  evil  has  come  good;  out  of  pain  has  grown 
happiness;  out  of  horror  has  sprung  an  everlasting  love. 
Many  a  man  will  say  that  in  all  my  relations  with  Carlotta 


302    The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

I  have  comported  myself  as  a  fool,  and  that  my  marriage 
is  the  crowning  folly.  Well,  I  pretend  not  unto  wisdom. 
Wisdom  would  have  married  me  to  five  thousand  a  year., 
a  position  in  fashionable  society,  my  Cousin  Dora  and 
premature  old  age  antecedent  to  eternal  destruction.  I 
hold  that  my  salvation  has  lain  the  way  of  folly.  Again,  il: 
may  be  urged  against  me  that  I  have  squandered  my  life, 
that  with  all  my  learning,  such  as  it  is,  I  have  achieved 
nothing.  I  once  thought  so.  I  boasted  of  it  in  my  diary 
when  I  complacently  styled  myself  a  waster  in  Earth's 
factory.  Oh,  that  diary!  Let  me  here  solemnly  retract 
and  abjure  every  crude  and  idiot  opinion  and  reflection  of 
life  set  forth  in  that  frenetic  record !  I  regard  myself  not 
as  a  waster — I  remember  a  passage  in  Epictetus  treating 
of  the  ways  of  Providence: 

"For  what  else  can  I  do,  a  lame  old  man,  than  sing 
hymns  to  God  ?  If  then  I  were  a  nightingale  I  would  do 
the  part  of  a  nightingale:  if  I  were  a  swan,  I  would  do  like 
a  swan.  But  now  I  am  a  rational  creature  and  I  ought  to 
praise  God;  this  is  my  work,  I  do  it,  nor  will  I  desert  this 
post  so  long  as  I  am  allowed  to  keep  it;  and  I  exhort  you 
to  join  in  this  same  song." 

No,  I  am  neither  nightingale  nor  swan,  and  cannot  add, 
as  they  do,  to  the  beauty  of  the  earth.  The  lame  old  man 
has  his  limitations;  but  within  them,  he  can,  by  cleaving 
to  his  post  and  praising  God,  fulfil  his  destiny. 

Carlotta  coming  onto  the  housetop  to  summon  me  to 
lunch  looks  over  my  shoulder  as  I  write  these  words. 

"But  you  are  not  a  lame  old  man!"  she  cries  in  indig- 
nation. "You  are  the  youngest  and  strongest  and  clever- 
est man  in  the  world!" 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  these  miraculous  gifts?"  I  ask, 
laughing. 

"You  are  to  become  famous,"  she  says,  with  conviction. 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne     303 

"Very  well,  my  dear.  We  will  have  to  go  to  some  new 
land  where  attaining  fame  is  easier  for  a  beginner  than  in 
London;  and  we'll  send  for  Antoinette  and  Stenson  to  help 
us." 

"That  will  be  very  nice,"  she  observes. 

So  I  am  to  become  famous.  Ce  que  femme  veiri,  Dieu  le 
veut.  And  Carlotta  has  got  a  soul  of  her  own  now  and 
means  to  make  the  most  of  it.  It  will  lead  me  upward 
somewhere.  But  whether  I  am  to  be  king  of  New  Babylon 
or  Prime  Minister  of  New  Zealand  or  lawgiver  to  a  Poly- 
nesian tribe  is  a  secret  as  yet  hidden  in  the  lap  of  the  gods, 
whence  Carlotta  doubtless  will  snatch  it  hi  her  own  good 
time. 

"You  are  writing  a  lot  of  rubbish,"  says  Carlotta. 

"And  a  little  truth.   The  mixture  is  Life,"  I  answer. 


THE  END 


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to  do  with  it.  It  is  seldom  we  find  so  much  enthusiasm  tempered 
by  so  much  experience  and  common  sense.  The  book  points  out  in 
a  practical  way  the  possiblities  of  a  very  small  farm  intensively  cul- 
tivated. It  embodies  the  results  of  actual  experience  and  it  is  in- 
tended to  be  workable  in  every  detail." — Providence  Journal. 

NEW  CREATIONS  IN  PLANT  LIFE.    By  W.  S.  Har- 

wood  and  Luther  Burbank.      An  Authoritative  Account 

of  the  Work  of   Luther   Burbank.     With  48   full-page 

half-tone  plates.     i2mo.     Cloth,  75  cents. 

Mr.  Burbank  has  produced  more  new  forms  of  plant  life  than  any 

other  man  who  has  ever  lived.     These  have  been  either  for  the 

adornment  of  the  world,  such  as  new  and  improved  flowers,  or  for 

the  enrichment  of  the  world,  such  as  new  and  improved  fruits,  nuts, 

vegetables,  grasses,  trees  and  the  like.     This  volume  describes  his 

life  and  work  in  detail,  presenting  a  clear  statement  of  his  methods, 

showing  how  others  may  follow  the  same  lines,  and  introducing  much 

never  before  made  public.     "  Luther  Burbank  is  unquestionably  the 

greatest  student  of  human  life  and  philosophy  of  living  things  in 

America,  if  not  in  the  world." — S.  H.  Comings,  Cor.  Sec.  American 

League  of  Industrial  Education. 

A  WOMAN'S  HARDY  GARDEN.  By  Helena  Rutlierfurd 
Ely.  Superbly  illustrated  with  49  full-page  halftone  en- 
gravings from  photographs  by  Prof.  C.  F.  Chandler, 
larno.  Cloth. 

"  Mrs.  Ely  is  the  wisest  and  most  winsome  teacher  of  the  fascinat- 
ing art  of  gardening  that  we  have  met  in  modern  print.  *  *  *  A 
book  to  be  welcomed  with  enthusiasm." — New  York  Tribune.  "Let 
us  sigh  with  gratitude  and  read  the  volume  with  delight.  For  here 
it  all  is  :  What  we  should  plant,  and  when  we  shonld  plant  it ;  how 
to  care  for  it  after  it  is  planted  and  growing ;  what  to  do  if  it  does 
not  grow  and  blossom  ;  what  will  blossom,  and  when  it  will  blossom, 
and  what  the  blossom  will  be.  It  is  full  of  garden  lore ;  of  the  spirit 
of  happy  out-door  life.  A  good  and  wholesome  book. —  The  Dial. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  -  NEW  YORK 


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THE  PILLAR  OF  LIGHT 

•*  Breathless  interest  is  a  hackneyed  phrase,  but  every 
reader  of  «  The  Pillar  of  Light  *  who  has  red  blood  in 
his  or  her  veins,  will  agree  that  the  trite  saying  applies  to 
the  attention  which  this  story  commands. — New  York  Sun* 

THE  WINGS  OF  THE  MORNING 

"  Here  is  a  story  filled  with  tke  swing  of  adventure. 
There  are  no  dragging  intervals  in  this  volume  :  from  the 
moment  of  their  landing  on  the  island  until  the  rescuing 
crew  find  them  there,  there  is  not  a  dull  moment  for  the 
young  people — nor  for  the  reader  cither." — New  York 
Times. 

THE  KING  OF  DIAMONDS 

"  Verily,  Mr.  Tracy  is  a  prince  of  story-tellers.  His 
charm  is  a  little  hard  to  describe,  but  it  is  as  definite  as 
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robust  imagination  of  the  author. — San  Francisco  Exam- 
iner. 

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THE  MOTHER  OF  WASHINGTON  AND  HER 
-/    TIMES,    by  Mrs.  Roger  A.  Pryor. 

The  brilliant  social  life  of  the  time  passes  before 
the  reader,  packed  full  of  curious  and  delightful  in- 
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SHAKESPEARE'S  ENGLAND,  by  William  Winter 

A  record  of  rambles  in  England,  relating  largely 
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land of  fact,  as  the  England  created  and  hallowed 
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THEODORE  ROOSEVELT  THE  CITIZEN,  by 
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Should  be  read  by  every  man  and  boy  in  America. 
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